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Was this upon myself: What I am truly,
AN OPPRESSED COUNTRY.
Alas, poor country;
Almost afraid to know itself! it cannot
Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,
Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives
MACDUFF'S BEHAVIOUR ON THE MURDER OF HIS WIFE
'Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
What concern they?
If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound, That ever yet they heard.
Humph! I guess at it. Rosse. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
Were, on the quarry § of these murder'd deer,
*Common distress of mind.
What, man? ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak, Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. Macd. My children too?
That could be found.
My wife killed too?
Wife, children, servants, all
And I must be from thence!
I have said.
Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
Macd. He has no children.-All my pretty ones? Did you say, all?-O, hell-kite!-All?
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop?
Mal. Dispute it like a man.
I shall do so;
But I must also feel it as a man:
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.-Did heaven look on,
This tune goes manly.
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you
* All pause.
SCENE. Enter Lady MACBETH, with a Taper.
Gent. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.
Doct. How came she by that light?
Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command.
Doct. You see, her eyes are open.
Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut.
Doct. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.
Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.
Lady M. Yet here's a spot.
Doct. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-One; Two; Why, then 'tis time to do't:-Hell is murky *!
-Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afear'd? What need we fear, who knows it, when none can call our power to account?-Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?
Doct. Do you mark that?
Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?- -What, will these hands ne'er be clean? -No more o' that, my lord, no more o'that: you mar all with this starting.
Doct. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.
Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known.
Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!
Doct. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body.
Doct. Well, well, well.—
Gent. 'Pray God, it be, sir.
Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.
Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:-I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out of his grave. Doct. Even so?
Lady M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand; What's done, cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to bed.
DESPISED OLD AGE.
I have liv'd long enough: my way of life
* Dry. EE
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
DISEASES OF THE MIND INCURABLE.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd;
REFLECTIONS ON LIFE.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
'Tis the curse of service;
Preferment goes by letter, and affection,
IAGO'S DISPRAISE OF HONESTY.
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark