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Nothing in his life
Became him like the leaving it; he died
As one that had been studied in his death
To throw away the dearest thing he owed,
As 't were a careless trifle.

Macbeth. Act i. Sc. 4.
There's no art
To find the mind's construction in the face.

Ibid. More is thy due than more than all can pay. Ibid.

Yet do I fear thy nature;
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.

Sc. 5.
What thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win.

Ibia. That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose.

Ibid. Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under ’t. Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses.

Sc. 6. The heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle : Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, The air is delicate.

Ibid If it were done when 't is done, then 't were well It were done quickly: if the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch


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With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We ’ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which being taught, return
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison's chalice
To our own lips.

Macbeth. Act i. Sc. 7.
Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off ;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed.
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.

Ibid. I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people. Letting “I dare not " wait upon “I would," Like the poor cat i’ the adage.? I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.

Ibid. Nor time nor place Did then adhere.

Ibid. Macb. If we should fail ? Lady M.

We fail ! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we ’ll not fail.




1 See Heywood, page 14.


Memory, the warder of the brain. Macbeth. Act i. Sc. 7...

There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.

Act ü. Sc. 1.

Shut up In measureless content.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch

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 ?

Ibid. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going.

Now o’er the one half-world
Nature seems dead.

Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout.

The bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

Ibid. It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern’st good-night.

Sc.2.1 The attempt and not the deed Confounds us.

Ibid. 1 I had most need of blessing, and “Amen” Stuck in my throat.

Ibid. 1 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,


1 Act ii. sc. 1 in Dyce, Staunton, and White.

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. Macbeth. Act ü. Sc. 2.1
Infirm of purpose !

Ibid. 1 'Tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil.

Ibid. 1 Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand ? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.

Ibid. 1 The labour we delight in physics pain.

Sc. 3.3 Dire combustion and confused events New hatch'd to the woful time.

1bid.2 Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee !

Ibid.2 Confusion now hath made his masterpiece ! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' the building!

Ibid.2 The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.

Ibid.2 Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment ?

Ibid.2 There's daggers in men's smiles.

Ibid.2 A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. Sc. 4.8 Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means !

Ibid. I must become a borrower of the night For a dark hour or twain.

Act üi. Sc. 1.

1 Act ii. sc. 1 in Dyce, Staunton, and White.
2 Act ii. sc. 1 in Dyce and White ; Act ii. sc. 2 in Staunton.
8 Act ii. sc. 2 in Dyce and White ; Act ii. sc. 3 in Staunton.


Let every man be master of his time
Till seven at night.

Macbeth. Act iii. Sc. 1.
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine succeeding.

Mur. We are men, my liege.
· Mac. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men.

I am one, my liege,
Whom the viie blows and buffets of the world
Have so incensed that I am reckless what
I do to spite the world.

So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it, or be rid on’t.

Things without all remedy
Should be without regard ; what's done is done.
We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it.

Better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our peace, 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, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.

In them Nature's copy's not eterne.

A deed of dreadful note.

Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,
Till thou applaud the deed.

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. Ibid.
Now spurs the lated traveller apace
To gain the timely inn.

Sc. 3.

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