Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head?

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.

There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.

Till all grace be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.

Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

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!