Is this a dagger which I see before me, / The handle towards 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.