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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
A dagger of the mind, a false creation Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable At which now I draw.
(Ding, Dong, Ding, Dong...)
I see thee still; And, on thy blade and dungeon, gouts of blood Which was not so before. There's no such thing.
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Here not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabouts
(A bell rings) I go, and it is done. The bell invites me. Here it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
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