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As happy prologues to the swelling act. Of the imperial theme.
Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill why hath it given me earnest of success
All my good comes from evil
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor.
Why must I kill a good man?
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make my seated heart knock at my ribs
Are less than horrible imaginings Against the use of nature? Present fears
It's worse than I imagined
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not
Only things that matter to me no longer exist
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