Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.
For brave Macbeth--well he deserves that name-- Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel
you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.
Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence?
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature?
what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily
There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.
A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'? I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen' Stuck in my throat.
some say, the earth Was feverous and did shake.
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' the building!
A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.
Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promised, and, I fear, Thou play'dst most foully for't
Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings!
Banquo, thy soul's flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night.
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly
Thou canst not say I did it: never shake Thy gory locks at me.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er
For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
though the treasure Of nature's germens tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken; answer me To what I ask you.
No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool. But no more sights!
Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly
I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace.
Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One: two: why, then, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!
More needs she the divine than the physician. God, God forgive us all!
I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts Cannot once start me.
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
Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen, Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life
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