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Lyrics
What the False Heart Doth Know
Away and mock the time with fairest show:
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
This supernatural soliciting cannot be ill;
Cannot be good:--
If ill, why hath it given me earnest of success, commencing in a truth?
I am Thane of Cawdor:
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature?
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man,
That function is smother'd in surmise;
And nothing is but what is not.
Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, topfull of direst cruelty?
Make thick my blood, stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctions visitings of nature shake my fell purpose,
Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry, Hold, Hold!
O, never shall sun that morrow see!
I've almost forgot the taste of fear
The time has been my senses would have cooled
To hear a night shriek
I have suck full with horrors
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood
in him?
What, will these hands ne'er be clean?
Here's the smell of the blood still:
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!--
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand
--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried;
He cannot come on on's grave.
What's done cannot be undone
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