Macbeth

by William Shakespeare

When you durst do it, then you were a man;

“Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep;

No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.

Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

what’s done cannot be undone:

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,