Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.

It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

Unsubstantial Death is amorous.

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!

If love be blind, it best agrees with night