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Macbeth · LADY MACBETH1:18 · 139 words
The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements.
Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood;
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it!
Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief!
Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry 'Hold, hold!'turn
From the catalogue
See all →LADY MACBETH
Macbeth · William Shakespeare
The raven himself is hoarse
EDMUND
King Lear · William Shakespeare
Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law
VIOLA
Twelfth Night · William Shakespeare
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
CONSTANCE
King John · William Shakespeare
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,