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By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
Sep 18, 2025
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well. It were done quickly.
What, can the devil speak true?
Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
A little water clears us of this deed.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
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!
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
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.
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?
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
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.
That but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come.
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won
Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn the power of man.
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand.
Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
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.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
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