Is this a dagger I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way I was going; and such an instrument I was to use.
or art thou a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat pressed brain?
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There’s no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebratesPale Hecate’s offerings, and wither’d murder, Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives: Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.