📔 Macbeth

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, / And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,

And pity, like a naked new-born babe, / Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin, hors’d / Upon the sightless couriers of the air, / Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, / That tears shall drown the wind.

Not in the legions / Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d / In evils to top Macbeth.

Will all great Neptunes ocean wash this blood / Cleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather / The multitudinous Seas incarnardine, / Making the Greene one, Red.

Were such things here, as we doe speake about? / Or have we eaten on the insane Root, / That takes the Reason Prisoner?

Thrice the brinded Cat hath mew'd.

Come, thick Night, / And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell, / That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes, / Nor Heaven peepe through the Blanket of the darke, / To cry, hold, hold.