Macbeth: 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?
Lady Macbeth: 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.