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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.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 With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. |
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