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Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
Sep 29, 2025
If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
When our actions do not, our fears make us traitors.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. 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. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn the power of man.
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
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