...Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make love known?
it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance
I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other.
Priests might divide the world into good and bad. In battle there was strong and weak and nothing else.
This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the King. Our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see
The time approaches That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must arbitrate; Towards which, advance the war.
Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yelled out Like syllable of dolor.
All causes shall give way: I am in blood Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er.
Screw your courage to the sticking-place
To watch. To wait. To wonder at a world in chaos,' the girl said. 'And hope one day you fools might learn.
The only sheets I'll ever long for are my own.
Let every man be master of his time.
Macbeth: If we should fail? Lady Macbeth: We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking place, And we'll not fail.
Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enough to beat the honest men and hang up them.
To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus...
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, ...
