Banquo: How goes the night, boy? Fleance:The moon is down. i have not heard the clock Banquo: and she goes at twelve. Fleance: I take 't 'tis later, sir Banquo :Hold, take my sword.
Banquo:Give me my sword. Who’s there? Mac:A friend Banquo:What, sir, not yet at rest? The king’s a-bed. MAC: Being unprepared, Our will became the servant to defect, Which else should free have wrought.
Mac: Being unprepared,Our will became the servant to defect,Which else should free have wrought.BANQUO: All’s well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have showed some truth.
MACBETH: I think not of them. Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. Banquo: At your kind’st leisure.
BANQUO: So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchised and allegiance clear, I shall be counselled. MAC: Good repose the while! BANQUO: Thanks, sir: the like to you! MACBETH: (to the SERVANT) Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed
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, sensibleTo feeling as to sight? Or art thou butA dagger of the mind, a false creation,Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?I see thee yet, in form as palpableAs this which now I draw.Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going,And such an instrument I was to use.Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' 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 informsThus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-worldNature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuseThe curtained sleep. Witchcraft celebratesPale Hecate’s offerings, and withered murder,Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his designMoves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fearThy very stones prate of my whereabout,And take the present horror from the time,60Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives.Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.