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, 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 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; 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.--Know, o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep; now Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered Murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. [A bell rings.] Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell, That summons thee to heaven or to hell. Shakespeare. CCXLV. ROMEO IN THE GARDEN.