Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Is this a dagger which I see before me?
Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
What’s done cannot be undone.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition.
Infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it.
Out, out, brief candle!
More needs she the divine than the physician.
Thou marvell’st at my words, but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood.
There’s daggers in men’s smiles.
When shall we three meet again?
What beast was’t then that made you break this enterprise to me?
I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.
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.
I have supp’d full with horrors.
But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.
A little water clears us of this deed.
By the clock, ’tis day, and yet dark night strangles the traveling lamp.
O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!
I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none.
We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.
I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
We heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
What’s the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley the sleepers of the house?
What, will these hands ne’er be clean?
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
The labor we delight in physics pain.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Hell is murky.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Is this a dagger which I see before me?
Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
What’s done cannot be undone.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition.
Infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it.
Out, out, brief candle!
More needs she the divine than the physician.
Thou marvell’st at my words, but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood.
There’s daggers in men’s smiles.
When shall we three meet again?
What beast was’t then that made you break this enterprise to me?
I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.
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.
I have supp’d full with horrors.
But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.
A little water clears us of this deed.
By the clock, ’tis day, and yet dark night strangles the traveling lamp.
O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!
I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none.
We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.
I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
We heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
What’s the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley the sleepers of the house?
What, will these hands ne’er be clean?
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
The labor we delight in physics pain.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Hell is murky.
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