I dreamt last night of strange images of death;
See not the wound it makes
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell.
Come, thick night!
The moon is down, the candles are all out;
A heavy summons lies upon me
And yet I would not sleep.
The instruments of darkness
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
Present fears are less than horrible imaginings;
Wicked dreams abuse curtained sleep.
Again to sleep;
And sleep in the affliction of these terrible dreams that shake us nightly.
Fair is foul and foul is fair.
Come, sealing night!
What's done is done.
Silver'd in the moon's eclipse,
The death of each day's life
Dwell in doubtful joy.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Show me:
Fatal vision,
False creation.
Show me:
Macbeth shall sleep no more.
The owl scream and crickets cry,
Full of scorpions is my mind.
Good things of the day begin to droop and drouse,
Something wicked this way comes.
Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts;
Thither he will come to know his destiny.
If it were done, it were done quickly.
Till then,
Torture of the mind to lie in restless ecstasy
Shall sleep no more.
No comments:
Post a Comment