It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.
My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!
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 labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast...
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams
That shake us nightly.
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching!
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
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.
There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.
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