Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
When shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain?
All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!
All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!
All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter!
Blood will have blood.
Something wicked this way comes.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Is this a dagger which I see before me?
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Out, damned spot!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Though his bark cannot be lost, yet it shall be tempest-tossed.
For brave Macbeth – well he deserves that name.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.
What’s done cannot be undone.
Yet do I fear thy nature. It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
The spirits that know all mortal consequences have pronounced me thus.
The instruments of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles, to betray’s in deepest consequence.
Peace! The charm’s wound up.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Threescore and ten I can remember well.
A little water clears us of this deed.
To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself.
I have lived long enough: my way of life is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters.
Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites, and show the best of our delights.
I pull in resolution and begin to doubt the equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth.
I am in blood, stepped so far, that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.
What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, would scour these English hence?
By the clock ’tis day, and yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp.
Stars, hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires.
From this moment the very firstlings of my heart shall be the firstlings of my hand.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair: hover through the fog and filthy air.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Security is mortals’ chiefest enemy.
By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis.
But I have none. The King-becoming graces, as justice, verity, temperance, stableness, bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them.
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born.
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