Blind Witch: By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!
Lady Macbeth: Things without all remedy should be without regard. What's done is done.
Macbeth: Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?
Three Witches: Double double, toil and trouble
Three Witches: Fire burn and cauldron bubble
Lady Macbeth: All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
Three Witches: Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Macbeth: [after slaying someone in battle] Thou wast born of woman!
Duncan: There's no art to find the mind's constuction in the face.
Malcolm: Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
Macbeth: Stars, hide your fires. Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Macbeth: My name's Macbeth!
Young Siward: The devil himself could not pronounce a title more hateful to mine ear.
Macbeth: I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, And to be baited with the rabble's curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Lay on, Macduff; And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!"
Seyton: Doubtful it stood... For brave Macbeth-well he deserves that name-Disdaining fortune, with his bradisht steel
Macbeth: Better be with the dead than on the torture of the mind to lie in restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave. After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Not steel, nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
Macbeth: Come, seeling night, scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day. And with thy bloody and invisible hand cancel and tear to pieces that great bond which keeps me pale. Light thickens, and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse while night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
Macbeth: If thou couldst, doctor, cast the water of my land, find her disease and purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo that should applaud again.
Macbeth: Why should I play the Roman fool and die on mine own sword while I see lives that gashes do better on them?
Macbeth: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow 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 who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Three Witches: Fair is foul and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air.
Macbeth: False face must hide what false heart doth know.
Lady Macbeth: Look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under't.