I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.

Take it in what sense thou wilt.

I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.

A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.