The Prince of Cumberland! that is a step On which I must fall down, or else o’er-leap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
If I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessed time; for from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality All is but toys: renown and grace is dead.
We have scotched the snake, not killed it. She’ll close and be herself, while our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth.
Be comforted: Let’s make us med’cines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief.
The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne’er be clean? No more o’that, my lord, no more o’that: you mar with all this starting.