I have two nights watched with you but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?
Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown 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
Lo you, here she comes. This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her, stand close.
How came she by that light?
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.
It is an accustomed action with her to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.
Yet here’s a spot.
Go to, go to. You have known what you should not.
Here’s the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, Oh, Oh!
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.
This disease is beyond my practice. Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.
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!
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.
So, good night.My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight.I think, but dare not speak.