Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
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.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.
Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
My way of life Is fall'n into the sear and yellow leaf.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
A little water clears us of this deed.
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
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!
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have; but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not" (5.3.25-28).
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! 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.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
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.
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