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.-Act 1, Sc. 7.

Lady Macb. Letting I dare not wait upon I would,
Like the poor cat i' the adage.*—Act 1, Sc. 7.

Macb. I dare do all that may become a man:
Who dares do more is none.-Act 1, Sc. 7.

Macb.

If we should fail? We fail!

Lady Macb. But screw your courage to the sticking place, And we'll not fail.-Act I, Sc. 7.

Macb. Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.

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?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable

As this which now I draw.

Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.

*The adage alluded to is "Catus amat pisces, sed non vult tingere plantas."

Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,

And on thy blade and dudgeon* gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs

Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

[A bell rings.

Act 2, Sc. I.

Macb. Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave + of care, 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.-Act 2, Sc. I.

Lady M.

The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil.-Act 2, Sc. 1.

Macb. The labour we delight in physics pain.

Act 2, Sc. 2.

*The wooden handle.

+ Unwrought silk.

I

Lady M.

Nought's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content:
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

Act 3, Sc. 2.

Macb. We have scotch'd* the snake, not kill'd it:
She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.

Mur.

But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer,

Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep

In the affliction of these terrible dreams

That shake us nightly: better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our place, 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.-Act 3, Sc. 2.

Fleance is 'scaped.

Most royal sir,

Mach. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect, Whole as the marble, founded as the rock,

As broad and general as the casing air:

But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in
To saucy doubts and fears.—Act 3, Sc. 4.

Lady M.

The feast is sold

That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making,

'Tis given with welcome: to feed were best at home; From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony;

Meeting were bare without it.

Query, scorch'd.

Macb.
Now, good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both!-Act 3, Sc. 4.

Sweet remembrancer!

Macb.

The times have been

That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,

With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools: this is more strange
Than such a murder is.-Act 3, Sc. 4.

Lady M. Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once.

Len.

Good night; and better health

Attend his majesty !

Lady M.

A kind good night to all!

Macb. It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood:
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak;
Augurs and understood relations have,

By magot-pies and choughs and rooks, brought forth
The secret'st man of blood.-Act 3, Sc. 4.

Macb. But yet I'll make assurance double sure,
And take a bond of fate.-Act 4, Sc. I.

Rosse. Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.-Act 4, Sc. 2.

Mal.

'Tis call'd the evil :
A most miraculous work in this good king;
Which often, since my here-remain in England,
I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven,
Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people,
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures,
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,

Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,
To the succeeding royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,

And sundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full of grace.—Act 4, Sc. 3.

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?—Act 4, Sc. 3.

Mal. Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak, Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. Act 4, Sc. 3.

Macd. What! all my pretty chickens then, and their dam, At one fell swoop?-Act 4, Sc. 3.

Macb. I have liv'd 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.
Act 5, Sc. 3.

Macb. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote

Doct.

Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Must minister to himself.

Therein the patient

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

Act 5, Sc. 3.