Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
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.
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.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
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?
We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
or simply:
