Bokelskere.no

MACBETH She would have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word -
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 stuts 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.

LADY MACBETH Here's the smell of the blood still - all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements.