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, sensible to feeling as to sight? or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I have drugg'd their possets, I laid their daggers ready
I have done the deed. This is a sorry sight
A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. Why did you bring these daggers from the place they must lie there: go carry them; and smear the sleepy grooms with blood
I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what i have done; Look on't again i dare not.
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: The sleeping and the dead are all but pictures.
What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes. Will great Neptune's ocean wash this blood from my hand?