Thou Art A Very Ragged

You Know Who You Are, But Know Not Who You Could Be.

So May I, Blind Fortune Leading Me, Miss That Which One Unworthier May Attain, And Die With Grieving.

There's Little Of The Melancholy Element In Her, My Lord: She Is Never Sad But When She Sleeps; And Not Ever Sad Then; For I Have Heard My Daughter Say, She Hath Often Dreamt Of Unhappiness, And Waked Herself With Laughing.

Blessings Of Your Heart, You Brew Good Ale.

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!