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And nothing is, but what is not.
Sep 16, 2025
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly.
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.
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.
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
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
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.
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.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
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.
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.
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
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
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.
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