Along with them They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain, A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler and a fortune-teller, A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp looking wretch, A living dead man.
As young as I am, I have observed these three swashers. I am boy to them all three, but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me.
Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more!"
O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check; Richer than doing nothing for a bauble; Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk.
O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!
The game's afoot. Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry, "God for Harry! England and Saint George!"
Now the devil that told me I did well Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.
Such tricks hath strong imagination That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear?
Is it possible That love should of a sudden take such hold?
Give me some music; music, moody food Of us that trade in love.