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You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
Sep 30, 2025
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
A little water clears us of this deed.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
My way of life Is fall'n into the sear and yellow leaf.
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.
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
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.
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.
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).
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.
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
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
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?
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.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.
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