Macbeth

by William Shakespeare

There’s no art To find the mind’s construction in the face:

A little water clears us of this deed:

But this place is too cold for hell.

Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, And look on death itself!

There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody.

It will have blood; they say blood will have blood:

And you all know security Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.