Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well. It were done quickly.
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.
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
A little water clears us of this deed.
That but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come.
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