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Enter Macbeth, and exit Seyton.
Len. Good-morrow, noble sir!
Macb. Good-morrow, both!
Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy thane?
Macb. Not yet.
Macd. He did command me to call timely on
I have almost slipp'd the hour.
Macb. I'll bring you to him.
Macd. I know, this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet, 'tis one.
Macb. The labour we delight in, physics pain.— This is the door..
Macd. I'll make so bold to call,
For 'tis my limited service.
Len. Goes the King hence to-day?
Macb. He does: he did appoint so.
Len. The night has been unruly: Where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air; strange screams of death, And prophesying, with accents terrible,
Of dire combustion, and confus'd events,
Macb. "Twas a rough night.
Len. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it.
Macd. O horror! horror! horror! Tongue, nor heart,
Cannot conceive, nor name thee!
Macb. and Len. What's the matter?
Macd. Confusion now hath made his master-piece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence
The life o' the building.
Macb. What is it you say? the life?
hen. Mean you his majesty?
Macd. Approach the chamber, and destroy your
With a new Gorgon :—Do not bid me speak;
See, and then speak yourselves.
[Exeunt MACBETH and LENOX.
Ring the alarum bell!—Murder! and treason!
[The Bell rings out.
Enter Banquo and Rosse.
O, Banquo, Banquo,
Our royal master's murder'd!
Enter Macbeth and Lenox.
Macb. Had I but died an hour before this chance I had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant, There's nothing serious in mortality:
All is but toys; renown, and grace, is dead;
Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.
Mal. What is amiss?
Macb. You are, and do not know it:
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood
Mal. Oh, by whom?
Len. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood, So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows; they stared, and were distracted; No man's life was to be trusted with them.
[Exeunt Malcolm and Donalbain.
Macb. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them.
Macd. Wherefore did you so?
Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious,
Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man :
Out-ran the pauser reason.—Here lay Duncan,
Ban. Fears and scruples shake us :
In the great hand of Heaven I stand; and, thence, Against the undivulg'd pretence I fight
Of treasonous malice.
Macb. And so do I.
All. So all.
Macd. Let's briefly put on manly readiness,
And question this most bloody piece of work,
All. Well contented.
A Wood on the Skirt of a Heath.
Thunder and Lightning.
Enter the Three Witches, and a Chorus of Witches. 1 Witch. Speak, sister, speak,—is the deed done? 2 Witch. Long ago, long ago; Above twelve glasses since have run.
3 Witch. Ill deeds are seldom slow, Nor single; following crimes on former wait; The worst of creatures fastest propagate.
Chor. Many more murders must this one ensue;
And every place surround,
1 Witch. He must,—
2 Witch. He shall,—
3 Witch. He will spill much more blood, And become worse, to make his title good. Chor. He must, he will spill much more blood, And become worse, to make his title good. 1 Witch. Now let's dance.
2 Witch. Agreed.
3 Witch. Agreed.
Chor. We should rejoice when good kings bleed. 1 Witch. When cattle die, about we go;
When lightning and dread thunder
Rend stubborn rocks in sunder,
And fill the world with wonder,
What should we do?
Chor. Rejoice, we should rejoice.
2 Witch. When winds and waves are warring, Earthquakes the mountains tearing,
And monarchs die despairing,
What should we da?
Chor. Rejoice, we should rejoice.
3 Witch. Let's have a dance upon the heath, We gain more life by Duncan's death.
1 Witch. Sometimes like brinded cats we show, Having no music but our mew,
To which we dance in some old mill,
To some old saw, or bardish rhime,—
Chor. Where still the mill-clack does keep time. 2 Witch. Sometimes about a hollow tree, Around, around, around dance we; Thither the chirping cricket comes, And beetles singing drowsy hums; Sometimes we dance o'er terns or furze, To howls of wolves, or barks of curs; And when with none of these we meet,—
Chor. We dance to the echoes of our feet. 3 Witch. At the night raven's dismal voice, When others tremble, we rejoice.
Chor. And nimbly, nimbly, dance we still, To th' echoes from a hollow hill.
ACT THE THIRD.
Macbeth's Castle at Inverness.
Enter Macduff, meeting Lenox.
Len. How goes the world, sir, now?