Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air
I’ll go more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on’t again I dare not
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but pictures: ‘‘tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil
To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come Fate into the list, And champion me to th'utterance
You must have patience, madam
He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors...to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not
What had he done, to make him fly the land?
Foul whisp'rings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles