Thy Wit Is A Very Bitter Sweeting;

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

Still It Cried ‘sleep No More!’ To All The House: ‘glamis Hath Murder’d Sleep, And Therefore Cawdor Shall Sleep No More,—macbeth Shall Sleep No More!

But Now I Am Cabined, Cribbed, Confined, Bound In To Saucy Doubts And Fears.

Me, Poor Man, My Library Was Dukedom Large Enough.