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.
Lady Macbeth Quotes part 2
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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