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Murder most foul, as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Murder most foul, as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies.
The gods on murtherers fix revengeful eyes.
Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies.
The gods on murtherers fix revengeful eyes.
Remorse for what? You people have done everything in the world to me. Doesn't that give me equal right?
Remorse for what? You people have done everything in the world to me. Doesn't that give me equal right?
A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at read more
A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to fear. The traitor is the plague.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ.
Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder
Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder
Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th' olden time,
Ere humane stature purged the gentle weal;
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Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th' olden time,
Ere humane stature purged the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been performed
Too terrible for the ear. The time has been
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end. But now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools. This is more strange
Than such a murder is.
Murder, like talent, seems occasionally to run in families.
Murder, like talent, seems occasionally to run in families.
