Emo MacBeth
Created on: November 6th, 2005
Sponsorships:
| user | amount | user | amount |
|---|---|---|---|
| No one has sponsored this site ( ._.) | |||
| Sponsor this site! | Total: $0.00 | Active: $0.00 | |
Vote metrics:
| rating | total votes | favorites | comments |
|---|---|---|---|
| (2.81) | 16 | 1 | 7 |
View metrics:
| today | yesterday | this week | this month | all time |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 2,149 |
Inbound links:
| views | url |
|---|---|
| 48 | https://www.bing.com |
| 5 | http://www.google.com.hk |
| 5 | http://216.18.188.175:80 |
| 5 | https://www.google.com/ |
| 3 | https://www.google.ca/ |
Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come let me clutch thee. I have thee not, in yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision sensible to feeling as to site. 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. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going, and such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made fools o'er the other senses, or else worth all the rest.
I see thee still. And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, which was not so before, there's no such thing. It is the bloody business which informs thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one-half world, nature seems dead and wicked dreams abuse the curtained sleep. Witches celebrate Pale Hecate's offerings and withered murder, alarumed by his sentinal, the wolf, whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace. With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design moves like a ghost.
Thou sure and firmset earth, hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear thy very stones prate of my whereabout and take the present horror of the time, which now suits with it. Whiles I threat he lives, words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. **DING DING*** I go and it is done, the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! 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 tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Bold
Italic
Underline
Code
User Link
Site Link