Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrenchd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding.
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 lifes fitful fever he sleeps well: Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further.