The devil to his fellow; and delight Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once, 'Tis hard to reconcile. Enter a Doctor. Mal. Well; more anon.-Comes the king forth, I pray you? Doct. Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched That stay his cure; their malady convinces Mal. A most miraculous work in this good king; Rosse. No; they were well at peace when I did leave them. Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes it? Rosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howled out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them. Macd. The general cause? or is it a fee-grief, Due to some single breast? What concern they? Rosse. No mind that 's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone. 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. Savagely slaughtered: to relate the manner, SCENE I.-Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a waiting Doct. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? Gent. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. Doct. A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? Gent. That, sir, which I will not report after her. Doct. You may to me; and 't is most meet you should. Gent. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. Enter LADY MACBETH, with a taper. 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 't is time to do 't:- Hell is murky!-Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier and afeard? 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. |