Fair is foul, and foul is fair Hover through the fog and filthy air.
O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman’s ear, Would murder as it fell.
As by the strength of their illusion Shall draw him on to his confusion. He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear. And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
Dispute it like a man.
I shall do so, But I must also feel it as a man.
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 all with this starting ... Here’s the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, Oh, Oh!