Go, prick thy face and over-red thy fear,Thou lily-livered boy.

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

Dame los puñales; los que duermen y los muertos no son sino sombras; únicamente los ojos de los niños tiemblan ante una estampa del diablo.

My hands are of your colour; but I shame To wear a heart so white.

Nought’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.

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

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.

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 taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.

All causes shall give way: I am in bloodStepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o’er.

I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where menMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,But be the...

I was in a production of ‘Macbeth.’

And nothing is, but what is not.

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.