Quotes on Macbeth Play

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have; but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not" (5.3.25-28).

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.

it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance

There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 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.

When our actions do not, our fears make us traitors.

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!

But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.

Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!

It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.

Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.

Is this a dagger which I see before me, _x000D_ _x000D_ The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. _x000D_ _x000D_ I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. _x000D_ _x000D_ Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible _x000D_ _x000D_ To feeling as to sight? or art thou but _x000D_ _x000D_ A dagger of the mind, a false creation, _x000D_ _x000D_ Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?