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From this study there lingered in his memory a phrase that for ten years had not risen to his lips, and which all at once forced itself uppermost in his mind with exasperating persistency. It was the words of Macbeth: "Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep; Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds."
From this study there lingered in his memory a phrase that for ten years had not risen to his lips, and which all at once forced itself uppermost in his mind with exasperating persistency. It was the words of Macbeth: "Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep; Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds."
The latter is a riddle of words; the former an enigma of thoughts. The one reminds me of an odd passage in Drayton's IDEAS As other men, so I myself do muse, Why in this sort I wrest invention so; And why these giddy metaphors I use, Leaving the path the greater part do go; I will resolve you: I am lunatic! O how my mind Is gravell'd! Not a thought, That I can find, But's ravell'd All to nought!
"Burdened with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls, the sometimes Thane of Cawdor indulged in an apostrophe to 'the dull god' which has enduring place in all language: 'Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in Life's feast,
Health and happiness often disappear from those who fail to sleep, for sleep, indeed, is "tired Nature's sweet restorer," as Young in his Night Thoughts termed it. Shakspere never wrote anything truer when he said: Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course, Chief nourisher of life's feast.
How many suicides have been averted, how many rash enterprises and decisions have been prevented, how many dangerous quarrels have been allayed, by the soothing influence of a few hours of steady sleep! 'Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care' is, indeed, in a careworn world, one of the chief of blessings.
From this study there lingered in his memory a phrase that for ten years had not risen to his lips, and which all at once forced itself uppermost in his mind with exasperating persistency. It was the words of Macbeth: "Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep; Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds."
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