William Shakespeare

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee!
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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?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.

If thou art rich, thou'rt poor,
For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st read more

If thou art rich, thou'rt poor,
For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

He is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it
Cry 'No recovery.'

He is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it
Cry 'No recovery.'

Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To tow'rs and windows, read more

Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To tow'rs and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.