09 February 2012
She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that. Heaven knows what she has known.
Here’s the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, Oh, Oh!
What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body.
Well, well, well.
Pray God it be, sir.
This disease is beyond my practice. Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.
Wash your hands. Put on your nightgown. Look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on one's grave.
To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone.—To bed, to bed, to bed!