nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark

to cry, "Hold, hold!"

Hie thee hither that I may pour my spirits in thine ear

and chastise with the valour of my tongue

all that impedes thee from the golden round.

Thy letters have transported me beyond this ignorant present

and I feel now the future in the instant.

My dearest love,

Duncan comes here tonight.

And when goes hence?

Tomorrow, as he purposes.

O never shall sun that morrow see!

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor,

and shalt be what thou art promised.

Yet I do fear thy nature.

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness

to catch the nearest way.

Thou wouldst be great.

Art not without ambition but without the illness should attend it.

To beguile the time, look like the time.