Is this a “dagger” which I see before “me” The “handlel toward my hand? Come let me clutch thee. have thee not and yet still. Art thou fatal vision sensible To feeling as to sight? or art but A dagger of the mind false creation Proceeding from heat-oppressed brain? yet in form palpable As now draw. Thou marshall’st way that was going And such an instrument use. Mine eyes are made fools o’ other senses Or else worth all rest still on thy blade dudgeon gouts blood Which not so before. There’s no thing: It is bloody business informs Thus mine eyes. Now o’er one halfworld Nature seems dead wicked dreams abuse curtain’d sleep witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s offerings wither’d murder Alarum’d by his sentinel wolf Whose howl’s watch thus with stealthy pace. With Tarquin’s ravishing strides towards design Moves like ghost. sure firm-set earth Hear steps they walk for fear Thy very stones prate whereabout take present horror time suits it. Whiles threat he lives: Words heat deeds too cold breath gives.