Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
But 'tis strange:
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence.
Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme.
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns
And push us from our stools: this is more strange
Than such a murder is.
Here's the smell of the blood still: all the
perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little
hand. Oh, oh, oh!