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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, a fatal vision, sensible too feeling as to sight? Or art thou a dagger of the mind, a false creation.
And, on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, Which was not so before.
Now o'er the one-half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse the curtain sleep.
Alarumed by his sentinel. the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design.
The bell invites me. Here it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or hell.
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