Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
To beguile the time, look like the time.
To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.
Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
And nothing is, but what is not.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire.
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
That but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come.
Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people.
The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
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