What man dare, I dare:

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The armed rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble.

Macbeth. Act iii. Sc. 4.

Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery, hence!

Ibid.

You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, With most admired disorder.

Ibid.

L. Macb. Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

I am in blood

Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

My little spirit, see,

Ibid.

Ibid.

Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,

Whoever knocks!

Act iii. Sc. 5.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

Ibid.

Ibid.

How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags!

What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break. Ibid.

What, all my pretty chickens and their dam

At one fell swoop?

Ibid.

I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.

Ibid.

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes
And braggart with my tongue!

Ibid.

Out, damned spot! out, I say!

Act v. Sc. 1.

Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard?

Macbeth. Act v. Sc. 1.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

Ibid.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

My way of life

Ibid.

Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
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.

Doct.

Not so sick, my lord,

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,

That keep her from her rest.

Act v. Sc. 3.

Cure her of that.

Macb.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain
And with some sweet oblivious antidote

Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff

Which weighs upon the heart?

Doct.

Must minister to himself.

Therein the patient

Macb. Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.

I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again.

Hang out our banners on the outward walls;

Ibid.

Ibid.

The cry is still, 'They come': our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn.

Act v. Sc. 5.

My fell of hair

Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir

As life were in 't: I have supped full with horrors.

Macbeth. Act v. Sc. 5.

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.

I pull in resolution, and begin

To doubt the equivocation of the fiend

That lies like truth: Fear not, till Birnam wood

Ibid.

Do come to Dunsinane.'

I gin to be aweary of the sun.

Blow, wind! come, wrack!

At least we 'll die with harness on our back.

I bear a charmed life.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Act v. Sc. 8.1

And be these juggling fiends no more believed,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to our ear,
And break it to our hope.

Ibid.1

Live to be the show and gaze o' the time.

Ibid.1

Lay on, Macduff,

And damned be him that first cries, Hold, enough!'

Ibid.1

1 Act v. Sc. 7, Singer, White.

For this relief much thanks.

Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 1.

But in the gross and scope of my opinion,
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Whose sore task

Does not divide the Sunday from the week.

This sweaty haste

Ibid.

Ibid.

Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day. Ibid.

In the most high and palmy state of Rome,

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,

The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

And then it started like a guilty thing

Ibid.

Upon a fearful summons.

Ibid.

Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,

The extravagant and erring spirit hies

To his confine.

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir1 abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

So have I heard and do in part believe it.
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.2

The memory be green.

1 'can walk,' White.

Ibid.

Nid.

Ibid.

Act i. Sc. 2.

2 'eastern hill,' Dyce, Singer, Staunton, White.