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"Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red."
"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."
"Prithee, see there! Behold! Look! Lo! How say you? Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too. If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites."
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