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Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.
What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.
Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale.--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he 70 cannot come out on's grave.
Hark, she speaks!
Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets: More needs she the divine than the physician.
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!
Good night, good doctor.
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