Quotes from Macbeth\nby William Shakespeare.\n(Sourced nearly entirely from www.cc.columbia.\nedu\acis\bartlett\138.31)
When shall we three meet again\nIn thunder, lightning, or in rain?\nWhen the hurlyburly 's done,\nWhen the battle 's lost and won. 
Fair is foul, and foul is fair. 
Banners flout the sky. 
Sleep shall neither night nor day\nHang upon his pent-house lid. 
Dwindle, peak, and pine. 
What are these\nSo wither'd and so wild in their attire,\nThat look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,\nAnd yet are on 't? 
If you can look into the seeds of time,\nAnd say which grain will grow and which will not. 
Stands not within the prospect of belief. 
The earth hath bubbles as the water has,\nAnd these are of them. 
The insane root\nThat takes the reason prisoner. 
\nAnd oftentimes, to win us to our harm,\nThe instruments of darkness tell us truths,\nWin us with honest trifles, to betray 's \nIn deepest consequence. 
Two truths are told,\nAs happy prologues to the swelling act\nOf the imperial theme. 
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,\nAgainst the use of nature. Present fears\nAre less than horrible imaginings. 
Nothing is\nBut what is not.
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me. 
Come what come may,\nTime and the hour runs through the roughest day. 
Nothing in his life\nBecame him like the leaving it; he died\nAs one that had been studied in his death\nTo throw away the dearest thing he owed, \nAs 't were a careless trifle. 
There 's no art\nTo find the mind's construction in the face. 
More is thy due than more than all can pay.
Yet do I fear thy nature;\nIt is too full o' the milk of human kindness. 
What thou wouldst highly,\nThat wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,\nAnd yet wouldst wrongly win. 
That no compunctious visitings of nature\nShake my fell purpose. 
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men\nMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,\nLook like the time; bear welcome in your eye,\nYour hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,\nBut be the serpent under 't. 
Which shall to all our nights and days to come\nGive solely sovereign sway and masterdom. 
This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air\nNimbly and sweetly recommends itself\nUnto our gentle senses. 
The heaven's breath\nSmells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,\nButtress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird\nHath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:\nWhere they most breed and haunt, I have observed,\nThe air is delicate. 
If it were done when 't is done, then 't were well\nIt were done quickly: if the assassination\nCould trammel up the consequence, and catch\nWith his surcease success; that but this blow \nMight be the be-all and the end-all here, \nBut here, upon this bank and shoal of time, \nWe 'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases \nWe still have judgment here; that we but teach\nBloody instructions, which being taught, return\nTo plague the inventor: this even-handed justice\nCommends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice\nTo our own lips. 
Besides, this Duncan\nHath borne his faculties so meek, hath been\nSo clear in his great office, that his virtues\nWill plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against\nThe deep damnation of his taking-off;\nAnd pity, like a naked new-born babe,\nStriding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed\nUpon the sightless couriers of the air,\nShall blow the horrid deed in every eye,\nThat tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur\nTo prick the sides of my intent, but only\nVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,\nAnd falls on the other. 
I have bought\nGolden opinions from all sorts of people. 
Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would,"\nLike the poor cat i' the adage.
I dare do all that may become a man;\nWho dares do more is none. 
Nor time nor place\nDid then adhere. 
Macbeth: If we should fail?\nLady M: We fail!\nBut screw your courage to the sticking-place,\nAnd we 'll not fail. 
Memory, the warder of the brain. 
There 's husbandry in heaven;\nTheir candles are all out. 
Is this a dagger which I see before me,\nThe handle toward my hand?\nCome, let me clutch thee.\nI have thee not, and yet I see thee still.\nArt thou not, fatal vision, sensible\nTo feeling as to sight? or art thou but\nA dagger of the mind, a false creation,\nProceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? 
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going. 
Now o'er the one half-world\nNature seems dead. 
Thou sure and firm-set earth,\nHear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear\nThy very stones prate of my whereabout. 
The bell invites me.\nHear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell\nThat summons thee to heaven or to hell. 
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,\nWhich gives the stern'st good-night. 
The attempt and not the deed\nConfounds us. 
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" 
Stuck in my throat. 
Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!\nMacbeth does murder sleep!" the innocent sleep,\nSleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,\nThe death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,\nBalm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,\nChief nourisher in life's feast. 
Infirm of purpose! 
'T is the eye of childhood\nThat fears a painted devil. 
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood\nClean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather\nThe multitudinous seas incarnadine,\nMaking the green one red. 
The labour we delight in physics pain. 
Dire combustion and confused events\nNew hatch'd to the woful time. 
Tongue nor heart\nCannot conceive nor name thee! 
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!\nMost sacrilegious murder hath broke ope\nThe Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence\nThe life o' the building! 
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees\nIs left this vault to brag of. 
Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,\nLoyal and neutral, in a moment? 
There 's daggers in men's smiles. 
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,\nWas by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. 
Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up\nThine own life's means! 
I must become a borrower of the night\nFor a dark hour or twain. 
Let every man be master of his time\nTill seven at night. 
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,\nAnd put a barren sceptre in my gripe,\nThence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,\nNo son of mine succeeding. 
We are men, my liege.\nAy, in the catalogue ye go for men. 
I am one, my liege,\nWhom the vile blows and buffets of the world\nHave so incensed that I am reckless what \nI do to spite the world. 
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,\nThat I would set my life on any chance,\nTo mend it, or be rid on 't. 
Things without all remedy\nShould be without regard; what 's done is done. 
We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it. 
Better be with the dead,\nWhom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,\nThan on the torture of the mind to lie \nIn restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; \nAfter life's fitful fever he sleeps well: \nTreason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison, \nMalice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, \nCan touch him further. 
In them Nature's copy 's not eterne. 
A deed of dreadful note. 
Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,\nTill thou applaud the deed. 
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. 
Now spurs the lated traveller apace\nTo gain the timely inn. 
But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, bound in\nTo saucy doubts and fears. 
Now, good digestion wait on appetite,\nAnd health on both! 
Thou canst not say I did it; never shake\nThy gory locks at me. 
The air-drawn dagger. 
The time has been,\nThat when the brains were out the man would die,\nAnd there an end; but now they rise again,\nWith twenty mortal murders on their crowns,\nAnd push us from our stools. 
I drink to the general joy o' the whole table. 
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes\nWhich thou dost glare with! 
A thing of custom,--'t is no other;\nOnly it spoils the pleasure of the time. 
What man dare, I dare:\nApproach thou like the rugged Russian bear,\nThe arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger,\nTake any shape but that, and my firm nerves\nShall never tremble. 
Hence, horrible shadow!\nUnreal mockery, hence! 
You have displac'd the mirth, broke the good meeting,\nWith most admir'd disorder. 
Can such things be,\nAnd overcome us like a summer's cloud,\nWithout our special wonder? 
Stand not upon the order of your going,\nBut go at once. 
What is the night?\nAlmost at odds with morning, which is which. 
I am in blood\nStepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,\nReturning were as tedious as go o'er. 
My little spirit, see,\nSits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me. 
Double, double toil and trouble;\nFire burn, and cauldron bubble. 
Eye of newt and toe of frog,\nWool of bat and tongue of dog. 
By the pricking of my thumbs,\nSomething wicked this way comes.\nOpen, locks,\nWhoever knocks! 
How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! 
A deed without a name. 
I 'll make assurance double sure,\nAnd take a bond of fate. 
Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;\nCome like shadows, so depart! 
What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? 
I 'll charm the air to give a sound,\nWhile you perform your antic round. 5 
The weird sisters. 
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook,\nUnless the deed go with it. 
When our actions do not,\nOur fears do make us traitors. 
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. 
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,\nUproar the universal peace, confound\nAll unity on earth. 
Stands Scotland where it did? 
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak\nWhispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break. 
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam\nAt one fell swoop? 
I cannot but remember such things were,\nThat were most precious to me. 
O, I could play the woman with mine eyes\nAnd braggart with my tongue. 
The night is long that never finds the day. 
Out, damned spot! out, I say! 
Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard?
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. 
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,\nI cannot taint with fear. 
My way of life\nIs fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf;\nAnd that which should accompany old age,\nAs honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,\nI must not look to have; but in their stead\nCurses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,\nWhich the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. 
Doct.: Not so sick, my lord,\nAs she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,\nThat keep her from her rest.\nMacb.: Cure her of that.\nCanst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,\nPluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,\nRaze out the written troubles of the brain,\nAnd with some sweet oblivious antidote\nCleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff\nWhich weighs upon the heart?\nDoct: Therein the patient\nMust minister to himself.\nMacbeth: Throw physic to the dogs: I 'll none of it. 
I would applaud thee to the very echo,\nThat should applaud again. 
Hang out our banners on the outward walls;\nThe cry is still, "They come!" our castle's strength\nWill laugh a siege to scorn. 
My fell of hair\nWould at a dismal treatise rouse and stir\nAs life were in 't: I have supp'd full with horrors. 
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,\nCreeps in this petty pace from day to day\nTo the last syllable of recorded time,\nAnd all our yesterdays have lighted fools\nThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!\nLife 's but a walking shadow, a poor player\nThat struts and frets his hour upon the stage\nAnd then is heard no more: it is a tale\nTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,\nSignifying nothing. 
I pull in resolution, and begin\nTo doubt the equivocation of the fiend\nThat lies like truth: "Fear not, till Birnam wood\nDo come to Dunsinane." 
I gin to be aweary of the sun. 
Blow, wind! come, wrack!\nAt least we 'll die with harness on our back. 
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. 
I bear a charmed life. 
And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,\nThat palter with us in a double sense:\nThat keep the word of promise to our ear\nAnd break it to our hope. 
Live to be the show and gaze o' the time. 
Lay on, Macduff,\nAnd damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!"