Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
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!
Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.