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Is this a dagger that I see before me, 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 dudgeon gouts of blood,Which was not so before.
Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy 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.
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