Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.Art thou not, fatal vision, sensibleTo feeling as to sight? Or art thou butA dagger of the mind, a false creation,Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?I see thee yet, in form as palpableAs this which now I draw.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going,And such an instrument I was to use.Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,Which was not so before. There’s no such thing.It is the bloody business which informsThus to mine eyes.
Now o'er the one half-worldNature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuseThe curtained sleep. Witchcraft celebratesPale Hecate’s offerings, and withered murder,Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his designMoves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fearThy very stones prate of my whereabout,And take the present horror from the time,Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives.Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
I go, and it is done. The bell invites me.Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knellThat summons thee to heaven or to hell.
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold.What hath quenched them hath given me fire.Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman,Which gives the stern’st good-night. He is about itThe doors are open, and the surfeited groomsDo mock their charge with snores. I have drugged their possets,That death and nature do contend about them,Whether they live or die.