macbeth

Your face, my thane, is as a book where menMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,But be the serpent under't.

Life is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing

The Weird Sisters, hand in hand,Posters of the sea and land,Thus do go, about, about,Thrice to thine, thrice to mine,And thrice again to make up nine.Peace, the charm's wound up.

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.

My hands are of your colour

Nought__ had, all__ spent, where our desire is got without content.

Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scornThe power of man, for none of woman bornShall harm Macbeth.

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none