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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 though not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight?
I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?
This is a sorry sight.
I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?
Whence is that knocking? How is it with me, when every noise appalls me? What hands are here? Ha! They pluck out mine eyes. 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
My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
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