Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep!"- the innocent sleep.
Our bodies are our gardens to which our wills are gardeners.
Young in limbs, in judgement old.
O sleep, O gentle sleep, nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, that thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, and steep my senses in forgetfulness.
Some cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
My salad days, when I was green in judgement, cold in blood.
Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye, steal me awhile from mine own company.
Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail.