Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
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.
What’s done cannot be undone.
I have lived long enough. My way of life is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf.
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?
It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood.
This dead butcher and his fiend-like queen.
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born.
The night is long that never finds the day.
I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam at one fell swoop?
My soul is too much charged with blood of thine already.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition.
To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus.
O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Make thick my blood, stop up the access and passage to remorse.
The devil himself could not pronounce a title more hateful to mine ear.
It is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell.
This dead butcher and his fiend-like queen, who, as ’tis thought, by self and violent hands took off her life.
I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.
I pull in resolution, and begin to doubt the equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth.
It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.
Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Cursed be that tongue that tells me so, for it hath cowed my better part of man!
Infected be the air whereon they ride, and damned all those that trust them!
I cannot taint with fear.
Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed, being of no woman born, yet I will try the last.
Let grief convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
Be bloody, bold, and resolute.
I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked.
All my pretty ones? Did you say ‘all’? O hell-kite! All?
Give me my armor.
What should be spoken here, where our fate, hid within an auger hole, may rush and seize us?
And thou opposed, being of no woman born, yet I will try the last.
I will not yield to kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet.
Now, near enough: your leafy screens throw down, and show like those you are.
It is the cry of women, my good lord.
This push will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.
Come, sir, dispatch. If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine, my wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still.
I will not be afraid of death and bane.
With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed.
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