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Macbeth, by contrast, knows that what he is contemplating is murder, and knows the murder of Duncan is wrong.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair. 10 Hover through the fog and filthy air.
This supernatural soliciting 130 Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor. If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man 140 That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
Stars, hide your fires, Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
To prick the sides of my intent but only Vaulting ambition which o’erleaps itself And falls on the other.
Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
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!
Naught’s had, all’s spent, Where our desire is got without content. ’Tis safer to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
Things without all remedy Should be without regard; what’s done is done.
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.
