The Thane Of Cawdor Lives, A Prosperous

Striving To Better, Oft We Mar What’s Well.

Let Me Be Boiled To Death With Melancholy.

What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?

Therefore The Moon, The Governess Of Floods, Pale In Her Anger Washes All The Air, That Rheumatic Diseases Do Abound; And Through This Distemperature We See The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

For Death Remembered Should Be Like A Mirror, Who Tells Us Life’s But Breath, To Trust It Error.