Macbeth

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.

Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

Life ... is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.

...Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make love known?

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none

Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.

Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won

Come what come may, time and the hour run through the roughest day.

Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.

Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts! Unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top full Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry "Hold, hold!

All causes shall give way: I am in blood Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er.

O, full of scorpions is my mind!

Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow...a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance

My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.

Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

So fair and foul a day I have not seen.

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.

I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.