Stars, hide your fires! / Let not light see my black and deep desires. / The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be, / Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

Come, thick night, / And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell / That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, / Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark / To cry, “Hold, hold!”

This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air / Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself / Unto our gentle senses.

I have no spur / To prick the sides of my intent, but only / Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself / And falls on th’ other—

Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! / Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep; / Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, / The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, / Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, / Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear / His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear. / And you all know, security / Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.

Alas, poor country, / Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot / Be call’d our mother, but our grave,

Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak / Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

Bleed, bleed, poor country! / Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, / For goodness dare not check thee!

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, / 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.