Act iv. Sc. 1.

Black spirits and white, Red spirits and gray, Mingle, mingle, mingle, You that mingle may.[2]

[Note 2: These lines occur also in "The Witch" of Thomas Middleton, Act 5, Sc. 2, and it is uncertain to which the priority should be ascribed.]

Act iv. Sc. 1.

By the p.r.i.c.king of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

A deed without a name.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

I'll make a.s.surance double sure, And take a bond of fate.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

Show his eyes, and grieve his heart!

Come like shadows, so depart.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?

Act iv. Sc. 1.

The flighty purpose never is o'ertook, Unless the deed go with it.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, At one fell swoop?

Act iv. Sc. 3.

I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue!

Act v. Sc. 3.

My way of life Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.

Act v. Sc. 3.

Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.

Act v. Sc. 3.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?

Act v. Sc, 3.

Throw physic to the dogs: I'll none of it.

Act v. Sc. 3.

I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.

Act v, Sc. 5.

Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, _They come_.

Act v. Sc. 5.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more; it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Act v. Sc. 5.

Blow, wind! come, wrack!

At least we'll die with harness on our back.

Act. v. Sc. 7.

I bear a charmed life.