Things without all remedy / Should be without regard: what’s done is done.

What's done cannot be undone.

Out, damned spot! out, I say! One; two. Why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d, / Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, / Raze out the written troubles of the brain, / And with some sweet oblivious antidote / Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff / Which weighs upon the heart?

O, never / Shall sun that morrow see!

Thou wouldst be great; / Art not without ambition, but without / The illness should attend it.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men / May read strange matters.

All our service, / In every point twice done, and then done double, / Were poor and single business to contend / Against those honours deep and broad wherewith / Your Majesty loads our house

Away, and mock the time with fairest show: / False face must hide what the false heart doth know.