Give your sorrow words. The grief that does not speak builds up softly in the heart, and bids it break.

I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.

So fair and foul a day I have not seen.

Infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.

All causes shall give way: I am in blood
Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o’er.