I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
A little water clears us of this deed.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we'll not fail.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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
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.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
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.
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