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Our will became the fervant to defect;
Which else should free have wrought.
Ban. All's well.

I dreamt laft night of the three weïrd fisters:
To you they've fhew'd fome truth.

Macb. I think not of them;

Yet when we can intreat an hour to ferve,
Would spend it in fome words upon that business;
If you would grant the time.

Ban. At your kind leisure.

Mach. If you fhall cleave to my confent, when 'tiş, It fhall make honour for you.

Ban. So I lose none

In feeking to augment it, but ftill keep .
My bofom franchis'd and allegiance clear,
I fhall be counfell'd.

Mach. Good repose the while!

Ban. Thanks, Sir; the like to you.

[Exeunt Banquo, and Fleance.

Mach. Go, bid thy miftrefs, when my drink is ready,

She strike upon the bell.

Get thee to bed.

[Exit Servant.

Is this a dagger which I fee before me,

The handle tow'rd my hand? come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I fee thee ftill.
Art thou not, fatal vifion, fenfible
To feeling, as to fight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a falfe creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppreffed brain?
I fee thee yet, in form as palpable

As this which now I draw.

Thou marshal'ft me the way that I was going;
And fuch an inftrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other fenfes,
Or else worth all the reft-I fee thee ftill;
And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not fo before. There's no fuch thing.
It is the bloody bufinefs, which informs

Thus to mine eyes.-Now o'er one half the world
Nature feems dead, and wicked dreams abuse

The curtain'd fleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings: and wither'd murder,
(Alarum'd by his centinel, the wolf,

Whofe howl's his watch) thus with his ftealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing ftrides, tow'rds his defign
Moves like a ghoft.-Thou found and firm-fet earth,
Hear not my fteps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very ftones prate of my where-about;
And take the prefent horror from the time,
Which now fuits with it-whilft I threat, he lives
[A Bell rings.
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That fummons thee to heaven, or to hell.

Enter Lady.

[Exit.

Lady. That, which hath made them drunk, hath made me bold:

What hath quench'd them, hath giv'n me fire. Hark! peace!

It was the owl that fhriek'd, the fatal bell-man, Which gives the ftern'ft good-night-he is about it. The doors are open; and the furfeited grooms,

Do mock their charge with fnores. I've drugg'd their poffets,

That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die..

Enter Macbeth.

Mach. Who's there? what ho

Lady. Alack! I am afraid, they have awak'd; And 'tis not done; th' attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us-hark!-I laid their daggers ready, He could not mifs 'em.-Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I' had don't-My husband!

Macb. I've done the deed-didft not thou hear a noise? Lady. I heard the owl fcream, and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?

Mach. When?

Lady.

Lady. Now.

Mach. As I defcended?

Lady. Ay.

Macb, Hark!-who lies i' th' fecond chamber?

Lady. Donalbain.

Macb. This is a forry fight.

[Looks on his hands.

Lady. A foolish thought, to fay, a forry fight.

Macb. There's one did laugh in's fleep, and one cry'd, murder!

They wak'd each other; and I ftood and heard them;
But they did fay their prayers, and address them
Again to fleep.

Lady. There are two lodg'd together.

Macb. One cry'd, God bless us! and Amen, the other; As they had feen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not fay, Amen, When they did fay, God blefs us.

Lady. Confider it not fo deeply.

Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen ? I had moft need of bleffing, and Amen

Stuck in my throat.

Lady. Thefe deeds must not be thought,

After thefe ways; fo, it will make us mad.

Mach. Methought, I heard a voice cry, fleep no more! Macbeth doth murder fleep; the innocent fleep; Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd fleeve of care, The death of each day's life, fore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's fecond courfe, Chief nourisher in life's feaft..

Lady. What do you mean?

Macb. Still it cry'd, fleep no more, to all the house; Glamis hath murder'd fleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall fleep no more; Macbeth shall fleep no more! Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why, worthy Thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brain-fickly of things; go, get fome water, And wash this filthy witnefs from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there. Go, carry them, and smear The fleepy grooms with blood.

Mach.

Mach. I'll go no more;

I am afraid to think what I have done ;
Look on't again, I dare not.

Lady. Infirm of purpose !

Give me the daggers; the fleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of child-hood,
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.

Knocks within.

Macb. Whence is that knocking?

[Exit

[Starting

How is't with me, when every noife appals me? (15) What hands are here? hah! they pluck out mine eyes. Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? no, this my hand will rather Thy multitudinous fea incarnadine,

Making the green one red

Enter Lady.

Lady. My hands are of your colour; but I fhame To wear a heart fo white; I hear a knocking [Knock. At the fouth entry. Retire we to our chamber; A little water clears us of this deed.

How eafy is it then? your conftancy

Hath left you unattended--hark more knocking! [Knock.
Get on your night-gown, left occafion call us,
And fhew us to be watchers; be not loft

So poorly in your thoughts.

Macb. To know my deed, 'twere beft not know myself. Wake, Duncan, with this knocking: 'would thou couldft! [Exeunt.

Enter a Porter.

[Knocking within.

(15) How is't with me, when ev'ry noise appals me ?]

This reflection is not only drawn from the truth and working of nature; but is fo expreft, as that it might have been copied from this. paffage of SOPHOCLES, which Stobaeus has quoted in his chapter upon fearfulness;

"Απανία γάρ τοι τως φοβεμένῳ ψοφεί

Each noife is fent t' alarm the man of fear,

Part.

Port. Here's a knocking, indeed: if a man were porter of hell-gate, he fhould have old turning the key. [Knock] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, i' th name of Belzebub? here's a farmer, that hang'd himfelf on the expectation of plenty: come in time, have napkins enough about you, here you'll fweat for't. [Knock] Knock, knock. Who's there, in th' other devil's name? faith, here's an equivocator, (16) that could fwear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treafon enough for God's fake, yet could not equivocate to heav'n: oh, come in, equivocator. [Knock] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there? faith, (17) here's an English taylor come hither for ftealing out of a French hofe: come in, taylor, here you may roast your goofe. [Knock] Knock, knock. Never at quiet! what are you? but this place is toc cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in fome of all profeffions, that go the primrofe way to th' everlafting bonfire. [Knock] Anon, anon, I pray you, remember the porter.

Enter Macduff, and Lenox.

Macd. Was it fo late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie fo late?

Port. Faith, Sir, we were caroufing 'till the fecond cock: And drink, Sir, is a great provoker of three things. Macd. What three things doth drink efpecially provoke? Port. Marry, Sir, nofe- painting, fleep, and urine. Lechery, Sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the defire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be faid to be an equivocator with

(16) Here's an equivocator---who committed treafon enough for God's fake, &c.] This farcafm is levell'd at the Jefuits, who were fo mifchievous in the reigns of Q. Elizabeth and K. James Ift. and who then first broach'd that damnable doctrine. Mr. Warburton.

(17) Here's an English taylor come hither for flcaling out of a French bofe:] The archness of this joak confifts in this; That a French hofe being fo very fhort and ftrait, a taylor must be a perfect mafter of his art, who could steal any thing out of it. As to the nature of the French hofe, we have feen that in Henry VIIIth: our poet calls them Short-bolfer'd breeches. Mr. Warburton. lechery;

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