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Act 2 Scene 1
Is this dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use
And on thy blade and dungeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.
Nature seems dead, and the wicked dreams abuse The curtains sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabouts
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