Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! 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.
Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
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