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 of 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 / Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse / The curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebrates / Pale Hecate’s offerings, and wither’d murder, / Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, / Whose howl’s his watch, thus with thy blades and dudgeon / We’ll make our faces vizards to our hearts, / Disguising what they are.