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Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.
Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the ínsane root That takes the reason prisoner?
Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act 140 Of the imperial theme.—I
Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
There’s no art To find the mind’s construction in the face: 15 He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be, 60 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
unsex me here; 45 And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 50 Th’ effect and it!
look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t.
Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar Upon his death?
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
My hands are of your colour, but I shame To wear a heart so white.
Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d a blessèd time; for, from this instant, There’s nothing serious in mortality: 265 All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.
Therefore, to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away: there’s warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.
Thou hast it now,—king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promis’d; and, I fear, Thou play’dst most foully for’t:
Let every man be master of his time 45 Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper-time alone: while then, God b’ wi’ you!
It is concluded:—Banquo, thy soul’s flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night.
We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it;
O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know’st that Banquo and his Fleance live.
It will have blood; they say blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; 145 Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth The secret’st man of blood.—What
Double, double toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and, caldron, bubble.
What is a traitor?
Why, one that swears and lies.
What, you egg!
Let’s make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief.
The queen, my lord, is dead.
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, 30 Signifying nothing.
