Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me

All's Well That Ends Well; Still The Fine's The Crown. Whate'er The Course, The End Is The Renown.

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!

I Do Know When The Blood Burns, How Prodigal The Soul Lends The Tongue Vows.

So Weary With Disasters, Tugg'd With Fortune, That I Would Set My Life On Any Chance, To Mend, Or Be Rid On't.

A Heavy Heart Bears Not A Nimble Tongue.