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!
What's done cannot be undone.
To bed, to bed, to bed.
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.
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve 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...
Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
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
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.
Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams
That shake us nightly.
A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching!
Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to.
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.
There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.
Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.
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.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
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!
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
Sleep, rest of things, O pleasing Deity,
Peace of the soul, which cares dost crucify,
Weary bodies refresh and mollify.
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