To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.

Sweets to the sweet.

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.

The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.

How use doth breed a habit in a man.

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!

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!