What Ugly Sights Of Death Within Mine

Downy Sleep, Death's Counterfeit.

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say!

Anger's My Meat. I Sup Upon Myself, And So Shall Starve With Feeding.

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?

You Are Strangely Troublesome.