I have not slept one wink.

The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake.

I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.

I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.

Ay me! sad hours seem long.