By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
What light through yonder window breaks?
If music be the food of love, play on.
Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well. It were done quickly.
Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are!
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.
Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see
But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.
Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale. Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to th' rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, While night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.
I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some hire public relations officers.
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.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.
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