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Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come let me clutch thee.
I see thee yet, in form as palpable as 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 informs Thus to mine eyes.
Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead...Whiles I threat, he lives. Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
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