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Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep' the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the raveled sleve of care.
Better be with the dead, whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, than on the torture of the mind to lie in restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; after life's fitful fever he sleeps well.
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse is the initiate fear that wants hard use. We are yet but young in deed.
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