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. Ourself will mingle with society And play the humble host. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
What's done cannot be undone. As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. Cure her of that. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. I ll none of it.