William Shakespeare

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

Revenge and wrong bring forth their kind;
The foul cubs like their parents are.

Revenge and wrong bring forth their kind;
The foul cubs like their parents are.

[F]ew things loves better
Than to abhor himself-- . . .

[F]ew things loves better
Than to abhor himself-- . . .

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving read more

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?
Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?

Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?
Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?