Let us rather hold fast the mortal sword and, like good men, bestride our downfall'n birthdom. Each new morn new widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows strike heaven on the face, that it resounds as if it felt with Scotland and yelled out like syllable of dolor.
Let us seek out some desolate shade and there weep our sad bosoms empty.
I am not treacherous.
What I believe I’ll wail; What know believe, and what I can redress, as I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest. You have loved him well. He hath not touched you yet. I am young, but something you may deserve of him through me, and wisdom to offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb T' appease an angry god. Click To EditWhat I believe I’ll wail; What know believe, and what I can redress, as I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Insert Link Insert Image Insert Video Help Insert ParagraphUndoes the last commandRedoes the last commandTabUntabSet a bold styleSet a italic styleSet a underline styleSet a strikethrough styleClean a styleSet left alignSet center alignSet right alignSet full alignToggle unordered listToggle ordered listOutdent on current paragraphIndent on current paragraphChange current block's format as a paragraph(P tag)Change current block's format as H1Change current block's format as H2Change current block's format as H3Change current block's format as H4Change current block's format as H5Change current block's format as H6Insert horizontal ruleShow Link Dialog Summernote 0.8.11 · Project · Issues
I have lost my hopes.
But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil in an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon. That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, yet grace must still look so.
Bleed, bleed, poor country!Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, for goodness dare not check thee. Wear thou thy wrongs; The title is affeered.—Fare thee well, lord. I would not be the villain that thou think’st For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp, And the rich East to boot.
Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Without leave-taking? I pray you,those precious motives, those strong knots of love, let not my jealousies be your dishonors, but mine own safeties. You may be rightly just, whatever I shall think.
What should he be?
Be not offended. I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke. It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash is added to her wounds. I think withalThere would be hands uplifted in my right; And here from gracious England have I offer. Of goodly thousands. But, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant’s head, or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country shall have more vices than it had before, more suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, by him that shall succeed.
Not in the legions of horrid hell can come a devil more damned in evils to top Macbeth.
It is myself I mean, in whom I know all the particulars of vice so grafted that, when they shall be opened, black Macbeth will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state esteem him as a lamb, being compared with my confineless harms.