The deep damnation of his taking-off:
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, hors'd
Upon the sightless couriers* of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,
And falls on the other.

TRUE FORTITUDE.

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.

ACT II.

THE MURDERING SCENE.

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?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable,

As this which now I draw.

Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon,† goutst of blood,
Which was not so before.-There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs

Thus to mine eyes.-Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrate,
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,

*Winds; sightless is invisible.

+ Haft.

Drops.

Who's howl'd his watch, thus with his stealthy pace
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.-Thou sure and firm set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.-Whiles I threat, he lives;
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
[A bell rings.

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell,
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.

Enter Lady MACBETH.

[Exit.

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

What hath quench'd them, hath given me fire:-
Hark! Peace!

It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it:
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd
their possets,

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

Macb. [Within] Who's there?-what, ho!

Lady M. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd, And 'tis not done:-The attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us:-Hark!-I laid their daggers ready He could not miss them.-Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't.-My husband! Enter MACBETH.

Mach. I have done the deed:-Didst thou not hear a noise?

Lady M. I heard the owls scream, and the crickets

Macb. Hark!—

Who lies i' the second chamber?

Lady M.

Mach. This is a sorry sight.

Donalbain.

[Looking at his hands. Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. Macb. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and on

cried, murder!

That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them;

But they did say their prayers, and address'd them
Again to sleep.
Lady M.

There are two lodg'd together. Mach. One cried, God bless us! and, Amen, the other;

As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands, Listening their fear, I could not say, amen,

When they did say, God bless us.

Lady M

Consider it not so deeply. Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce, amen?

I had most need of blessing, and amen

Stuck in my throat.

Lady M.

These deeds must not be thought

After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no

more!

Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep;
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care.
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast;—

Lady-M.

What do you mean? Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more! to all the house' Glamis hath murder'd sleep; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more! lady M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, wor. thy Thane,

You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things:-Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.-
• As if.

† Sleave, is unwrought silk.

Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: Go, carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.

Macb.

I'll go no more I am afraid to think what I have done:

Look on't again, I dare not.

Lady M.

Infirm of purpose!

Give me the daggers: The sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood,
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,

I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,

For it must seem their guilt.

Macb.

[Exit. Knocking within. Whence is that knocking?

How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine

eyes!

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No: this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnardine,*

Making the green one red.

Re-enter Lady MACBETH.

Lady M. My hands are of your colour; but I shame

To wear a heart so white. [Knock.] I hear a knocking
At the south entry:-retire we to our chamber:
A little water clears us of this deed:

How easy is it then! Your constancy

Hath left you unattended.-[Knocking.] Hark! more knocking:

Get on your night-gown, lest occasion call us,

And show us to be watchers:-Be not lost

So poorly in your thoughts.

Macb. To know my deed,-'twere best not know

myself.

[Knock.

[Exeunt

Wake Duncan with thy knocking! Ay, 'would thou

couldst!

To incarnardine is to stain of a flesh colour.

ACT III.

MACBETH'S GUILTY CONSCIENCE AND FEARS OF

BANQUO.

Lady M. How now, my lord; why do you keep alone,

Of sorriest fancies your companions making?
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without remedy,
Should be without regard: what's done, is done.

Macb. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it;
She'll close and be herself; whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let

The frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep

In the affliction of these terrible dreams,

That shake us nightly: Better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our place, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie

In restless ecstasy.† Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreiga levy, nothing

Can touch him further.

O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives.
Lady M. But in them nature's copy's not eterne.
Mach. There's comfort yet; they are assailable;
Then be thou jocund: Ere the bat hath flown
His cloister'd flight; ere, to black Hecate's summons.
The shard-borne beetle,§ with his drowsy hums,
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed of dreadful note.

Lady M.

*Most melancholy.

What's to be done?

† Agony.

i. e. The copy, the lease, by which they hold their lives from nature, has its time of termination.

The beetle borne in the air by its shards or scaly wings,