Act 2 Scene 1 (Spoken by Macbeth)
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
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?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
Act 3 Scene 1 (Spoken by Hamlet)
- To be, or not to be
- That is the question:
- Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
- The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
- Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
- And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep -
- No more - and by a sleep to say we end
- The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
- That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
- Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep -
- To sleep - perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
- For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
- When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
- Must give us pause. There's the respect
- That makes calamity of so long life.
- For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
- Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
- The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
- The insolence of office, and the spurns
- That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
- When he himself might his quietus make
- With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
- To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
- But that the dread of something after death,
- The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
- No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
- And makes us rather bear those ills we have
- Than fly to others that we know not of?
- Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
- And thus the native hue of resolution
- Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
- And enterprise of great pitch and moment
- With this regard their currents turn awry
- And lose the name of action. - Soft you now,
- The fair Ophelia! - Nymph, in thy orisons
- Be all my sins remembered.