There's Not A Note Of Mine That's

I, Thus Neglecting Worldly Ends, All Dedicated To Closeness And The Bettering Of My Mind.

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

Nay, Had I Pow'r, I Should Pour The Sweet Milk Of Concord Into Hell, Uproar The Universal Peace, Confound All Unity On Earth.

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!

Moderate Lamentation Is The Right Of The Dead, Excessive Grief The Enemy To The Living.