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!
Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep, - the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast.
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
What's done cannot be undone.
To bed, to bed, to bed.
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it.
Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching!
There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to.
Better be with the dead,
Whom we to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy.
The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
Out, damned spot! out, I say!
The worst thing in the world is to be bland.
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.
A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Sleep, rest of things, O pleasing Deity, Peace of the soul, which cares dost crucify, Weary bodies refresh and mollify.
Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
For sleep, one needs endless depths of blackness to sink into; daylight is too shallow, it will not cover one.
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