Nina trying to practice her soliloquy
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 false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way 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 mine eyes.
Macbeth hates 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 false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way 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 mine eyes.
Macbeth hates me.