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
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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 a fatal vision, sensible To feeling, as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a flase creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in a 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' th' 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 my eyes.