sensible to feeling as to sight?

Or art thou but a dagger of the mind?

A false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain.

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.

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 curtained sleep.

Witchcraft celebrates

and withered murder moves like a ghost.

I see thee yet,

in form as palpable as this which now I draw.

Whiles I threat, he lives.

Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

The spring,

the head,