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What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!—One, two. Why, then, ’tis 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.
Do you mark that?
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.To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone.—To bed, to bed, to bed!
Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands. Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach. 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.
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 distempered cause Within the belt of rule.
Who then shall blame His pestered senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there?
Well, march we on, To give obedience where ’tis truly owed. Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal, And with him pour we in our country’s purge Each drop of us.
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