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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?
Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires:
look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;
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.
It is concluded:—Banquo, thy soul’s flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night.
Be this the whetstone of your sword: Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
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.
