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!
My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?
Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak.
Who wooed in haste, and means to wed at leisure.
Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?