O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
O shame! where is thy blush?
O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
O God! that one might read the book of fate.
Now sit we close about this taper here, and call in question our necessities.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh; And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous.
Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now, and they’ll o’ergrow the garden And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.
Nought ‘s had, all ‘s spent, Where our desire is got without content.
Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.
No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned.
No, I’ll not weep: I have full cause of weeping; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or ere I’ll weep.