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  • 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.
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