Benghazi

John Singer Sargent

The raven himself is hoarse 


That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 


Under my battlements. Come, you spirits 


That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 


And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full 


Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood, 


Stop up th’access and passage to remorse, 


That no compunctious visitings of nature 


Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 


Th’ effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts, 


And take my milk for gall, you murd’ring ministers, 


Wherever in your sightless substances 


You wait on nature’s mischief. 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!’


Hillary Clinton –Lady Macbeth, “Macbeth,” Act I, scene v

ht:  sister toldjah