Macbeth Page #6

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Come, go we to the king!

Our power is ready;

Our lack is nothing but our leave.

Macbeth is ripe for shaking,

and the powers above put on their instruments.

Receive what cheer you may: the night is long

that never finds the day.

What does the tyrant?

Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies.

Some say he's mad.

Others that lesser hate him Do call it valiant fury.

but, for certain, he cannot buckle his distemper'd

cause within the belt of rule.

Now does he feel his secret murders

sticking on his hands;

Those he commands move only in command, nothing in love.

Now does he feel his title hang loose about him,

like a giant's robe upon a dwarfish thief.

Lord!

Bring me no more reports; let them fly all.

Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,

I cannot taint with fear.

What's the boy Malcolm?

Was he not born of woman?

The spirits that know all mortal consequences

have pronounced me thus:

'Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman

shall e'er have power upon thee.'

Then fly, false thanes, and mingle

with the English epicures:

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!

Where got'st thou that goose look?

There is ten thousand--/Geese, villain!/

--soldiers, sir.

Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,

thou lily-liver'd boy.

What soldiers, patch?

Death of thy soul! Those linen cheeks of thine

are counsellors to fear.

What soldiers, whey-face?

The English force, so please you.

Take thy face hence.

Seyton! I am sick at heart, when I behold.

Seyton, I say!

This push will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.

I have lived long enough.

My way of life is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf;

And that which should accompany old age,

as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,

I must not look to have.

but, in their stead, curses, not loud but deep,

mouth-honour, breath,

which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.

Seyton!

What is your gracious pleasure?

What news more?

All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.

Give me mine armour.

Send out more horses.

Skirr the country round.

Hang those that talk of fear.

Give me mine armour.

How does your patient, doctor?

Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled

with thick coming fancies,

that keep her from her rest.

Cure her of that.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,

pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

raze out the written troubles of the brain,

and with some sweet oblivious antidote

cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,

which weighs upon the heart?

Therein the patient must minister to himself.

Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.

Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff.

Seyton, send out.

Doctor, the thanes fly from me.

Come, sir, dispatch.

If thou couldst, doctor, cast

the water of my land, find her disease,

and purge it to a sound and pristine health,

I would applaud thee to the very echo

that should applaud again.

Pull't off, I say.

What rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug,

would scour these English hence?

I will not be afraid of death and bane,

till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

What wood is this before us?

The wood of Birnam.

Let every soldier hew him down a bough

And bear't before him.

Thereby shall we shadow

The numbers of our host and make discovery

err in report of us.

It shall be done.

I have two nights watched with you,

but can perceive no truth in your report.

Doctor, I have seen her rise from her bed,

throw her night-gown upon her,

unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it,

write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it,

and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

what, at any time, have you heard her say?

That, doctor, which I will not report after her.

You may to me:
and 'tis most meet you should.

Lo you, here she comes!

And, upon my life, fast asleep.

How came she by that light?

She has light by her continually;

'tis her command.

You see, her eyes are open.

/Ay, but their sense is shut.

Yet here's a spot.

Look, how she rubs her hands.

It is an accustomed action with her,

to seem thus washing her hands.

Out, damned spot! out, I say!

One:
two: why, then, 'tis time to do't.

Hell is murky!

Fie, my lord, fie!

Do you mark that?

Yet who would have thought the old man

to have had so much blood in him.

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.

Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that.

Here's the smell of the blood still.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not

sweeten this little hand.

The heart is sorely charged.

I would not have such a heart in my bosom

for the dignity of the whole body.

Wash your hands, put on your nightgown;

Look not so pale.

I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried;

he cannot come out on's grave.

There's knocking at the gate:

To bed, to bed!

Come, come, come, come, give me your hand.

What's done cannot be undone.

To bed, to bed!

God forgive us all!

What is that noise?

It is the cry of women, my good lord.

I have almost forgot the taste of fears;

The time has been, my senses would have

cool'd to hear a night-shriek.

and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise

rouse and stir as life were in't.

I have supp'd full with horrors.

Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts

cannot once start me.

Wherefore was that cry?

The queen, my lord, is dead.

She should have died hereafter.

There would have been a time for such a word.

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

then is heard no more.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

signifying nothing.

Gracious my lord!

I should report that which I say I saw,

but know not how to do it.

Well, say, sir.

As I did stand my watch upon the hill,

I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,

the wood began to move.

If thou speak'st false, upon the next tree

shalt thou hang alive,

till famine cling thee.

if thy speech be sooth, I care not

if thou dost for me as much.

I pull in resolution, and begin to doubt

the equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth.

'Fear not, till Birnam wood do come to Dunsinane;'

and now a wood comes toward Dunsinane.

Arm, arm, and out! There is nor flying hence

nor tarrying here.

I gin to be aweary of the sun,

and wish the estate o' the world were now undone.

Ring the alarum-bell!

Seyton!

Blow, wind! come, wrack!

At least we'll die with harness on our back.

I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms

are hired to bear their staves

Either thou, Macbeth, or else my sword

with an unbatter'd edge

I sheathe again undeeded.

Our castle's strength will laugh a siege to scorn.

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