To Lapse In Fulness Is Sorer Than

Life Is As Tedious As Twice-told Tale, Vexing The Dull Ear Of A Drowsy Man.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.

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!

Sweetest Nut Hath Sourest Rind.

My Salad Days, When I Was Green In Judgment.