He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.
GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .
Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart-see, they bark at me.
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!