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.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.
There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.
Now o'er the one half-world
You've reached the end of your free preview.
Want to read the whole page?
- Fall '19
