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Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.
Sep 17, 2025
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well. It were done quickly.
A little water clears us of this deed.
Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.
And nothing is, but what is not.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
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.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
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.
Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are!
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
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?
Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
When our actions do not, our fears make us traitors.
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).
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.
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
Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won
But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
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?
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.
Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance
Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
All's well that ends well.