Oftentimes, to win us to our harm,The instruments of darkness tell us truths,Win us with honest trifles, to betray ’sIn deepest consequence.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
Are you a man?
Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on thatWhich might appall the devil.
From this momentThe very firstlings of my heart shall beThe firstlings of my hand.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time,And all our yesterdays have lighted fools, The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!