Let me play the fool. / With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. / And let my liver rather heat with wine / Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. / Why should a man whose blood is warm within / Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster, / Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice / By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio— / I love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks— / There are a sort of men whose visages / Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, / And do a willful stillness entertain / With purpose to be dressed in an opinion / Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, / As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle, / And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!" / O my Antonio, I do know of these / That therefore only are reputed wise / For saying nothing, when I am very sure / If they should speak, would almost damn those ears / Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. / I'll tell thee more of this another time. / But fish not with this melancholy bait / For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.—

— William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice