Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.
Unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty!
What’s done cannot be undone.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here!
Yet I do fear thy nature; it is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
I have given suck, and know how tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me.
These deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad.
We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.
Things without all remedy should be without regard; what’s done is done.
Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done’t.
It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition.
Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow.
We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it.
We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.
Tis safer to be that which we destroy than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
More needs she the divine than the physician.
A little water clears us of this deed.
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
What’s done is done.
A little water clears us of this deed.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.
The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures.
I fear thy nature; it is too full of the milk of human kindness.
Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done’t.
Things without all remedy should be without regard; what’s done is done.
Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
Out, damn’d spot! Out, I say!
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Who dares receive it other, as we shall make our griefs and clamor roar upon his death?
Yet I do fear thy nature; it is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
To beguile the time, look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be what thou art promised.
Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures.
I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; question enrages him.
Naught’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.
I will drain him dry as hay; sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid.
Make thick my blood; stop up the access and passage to remorse.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
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