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A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching!
Sep 17, 2025
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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.
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?
There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
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.
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
Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast...
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.
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
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