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?

A little water clears us of this deed: / How easy is it then!

List’ning their fear, I could not say “Amen,” / When they did say, “God bless us.”

These deeds must not be thought / After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

I have done the deed.—Didst thou not hear a noise?

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! / Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope / The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence / The life o’ th’ building.

O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!

The labour we delight in physics pain.

It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, / If it find heaven, must find it out tonight.

Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, / As the Weird Women promis’d; and, I fear, / Thou play’dst most foully for’t;