The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan (40) Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood.
My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried, but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.
Verily, I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.