Act V, Scene II — The same. Before the Princess’s pavilion
Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Katharine and Maria.
PRINCESS. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, If fairings come thus plentifully in. A lady walled about with diamonds! Look you what I have from the loving King.
ROSALINE. Madam, came nothing else along with that?
PRINCESS. Nothing but this? Yes, as much love in rhyme As would be crammed up in a sheet of paper Writ o’ both sides the leaf, margent and all, That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name.
ROSALINE. That was the way to make his godhead wax, For he hath been five thousand years a boy.
KATHARINE. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.
ROSALINE. You’ll ne’er be friends with him. He killed your sister.
KATHARINE. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; And so she died. Had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died. And so may you, for a light heart lives long.
ROSALINE. What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?
KATHARINE. A light condition in a beauty dark.
ROSALINE. We need more light to find your meaning out.
KATHARINE. You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff; Therefore I’ll darkly end the argument.
ROSALINE. Look what you do, you do it still i’ th’ dark.
KATHARINE. So do not you, for you are a light wench.
ROSALINE. Indeed, I weigh not you, and therefore light.
KATHARINE. You weigh me not? O, that’s you care not for me.
ROSALINE. Great reason, for past cure is still past care.
PRINCESS. Well bandied both; a set of wit well played. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too. Who sent it? And what is it?
ROSALINE. I would you knew. An if my face were but as fair as yours, My favour were as great. Be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne; The numbers true, and, were the numbering too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground. I am compared to twenty thousand fairs. O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter.
PRINCESS. Anything like?
ROSALINE. Much in the letters, nothing in the praise.
PRINCESS. Beauteous as ink: a good conclusion.
KATHARINE. Fair as a text B in a copy-book.
ROSALINE. ’Ware pencils, how! Let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter. O, that your face were not so full of O’s!
PRINCESS. A pox of that jest! And beshrew all shrews. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumaine?
KATHARINE. Madam, this glove.
PRINCESS. Did he not send you twain?
KATHARINE. Yes, madam, and moreover, Some thousand verses of a faithful lover. A huge translation of hypocrisy, Vilely compiled, profound simplicity.
MARIA. This, and these pearls, to me sent Longaville. The letter is too long by half a mile.
PRINCESS. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart The chain were longer and the letter short?
MARIA. Ay, or I would these hands might never part.
PRINCESS. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.
ROSALINE. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. That same Berowne I’ll torture ere I go. O that I knew he were but in by th’ week! How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek, And wait the season, and observe the times, And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes, And shape his service wholly to my hests, And make him proud to make me proud that jests! So pair-taunt-like would I o’ersway his state, That he should be my fool, and I his fate.
PRINCESS. None are so surely caught, when they are catched, As wit turned fool. Folly, in wisdom hatched, Hath wisdom’s warrant and the help of school And wit’s own grace to grace a learned fool.
ROSALINE. The blood of youth burns not with such excess As gravity’s revolt to wantonness.
MARIA. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note As fool’ry in the wise when wit doth dote, Since all the power thereof it doth apply To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.
Enter Boyet.
PRINCESS. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.
BOYET. O, I am stabbed with laughter! Where’s her Grace?
PRINCESS. Thy news, Boyet?
BOYET. Prepare, madam, prepare! Arm, wenches, arm! Encounters mounted are Against your peace. Love doth approach disguised, Armed in arguments. You’ll be surprised. Muster your wits, stand in your own defence, Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.
PRINCESS. Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they That charge their breath against us? Say, scout, say.
BOYET. Under the cool shade of a sycamore I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour, When, lo, to interrupt my purposed rest, Toward that shade I might behold addressed The King and his companions. Warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by, And overheard what you shall overhear: That, by and by, disguised they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page That well by heart hath conned his embassage. Action and accent did they teach him there: “Thus must thou speak,” and “thus thy body bear.” And ever and anon they made a doubt Presence majestical would put him out; “For,” quoth the King, “an angel shalt thou see; Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.” The boy replied “An angel is not evil; I should have feared her had she been a devil.” With that all laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. One rubbed his elbow thus, and fleered, and swore A better speech was never spoke before. Another with his finger and his thumb Cried “Via, we will do ’t, come what will come.” The third he capered, and cried “All goes well!” The fourth turned on the toe, and down he fell. With that they all did tumble on the ground, With such a zealous laughter, so profound, That in this spleen ridiculous appears, To check their folly, passion’s solemn tears.
PRINCESS. But what, but what, come they to visit us?
BOYET. They do, they do, and are apparelled thus, Like Muscovites, or Russians, as I guess. Their purpose is to parley, court, and dance, And every one his love-feat will advance Unto his several mistress, which they’ll know By favours several which they did bestow.
PRINCESS. And will they so? The gallants shall be tasked; For, ladies, we will every one be masked, And not a man of them shall have the grace, Despite of suit, to see a lady’s face. Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear, And then the King will court thee for his dear. Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine, So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline. And change you favours too; so shall your loves Woo contrary, deceived by these removes.
ROSALINE. Come on, then, wear the favours most in sight.
KATHARINE. But in this changing, what is your intent?
PRINCESS. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs. They do it but in mocking merriment, And mock for mock is only my intent. Their several counsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook, and so be mocked withal Upon the next occasion that we meet, With visages displayed to talk and greet.
ROSALINE. But shall we dance, if they desire us to’t?
PRINCESS. No, to the death we will not move a foot, Nor to their penned speech render we no grace, But while ’tis spoke each turn away her face.
BOYET. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part.
PRINCESS. Therefore I do it, and I make no doubt The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out. There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown, To make theirs ours and ours none but our own. So shall we stay, mocking intended game, And they, well mocked, depart away with shame.
[Sound trumpet, within.]
BOYET. The trumpet sounds. Be masked; the maskers come.
[The Ladies mask.]
Enter Blackamoors with music, Moth, with a speech, the King, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine disguised.
MOTH. All hail, the richest beauties on the earth!
BOYET. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta.
MOTH. A holy parcel of the fairest dames
[The Ladies turn their backs to him.]
That ever turned their—backs—to mortal views!
BEROWNE. Their eyes, villain, their eyes.
MOTH. _That ever turned their eyes to mortal views. Out_—
BOYET. True; out indeed.
MOTH. _Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe Not to behold_—
BEROWNE. Once to behold, rogue!
MOTH. _Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes— With your sun-beamed eyes_—
BOYET. They will not answer to that epithet. You were best call it “daughter-beamed eyes”.
MOTH. They do not mark me, and that brings me out.
BEROWNE. Is this your perfectness? Be gone, you rogue!
[Exit Moth.]
ROSALINE. What would these strangers? Know their minds, Boyet. If they do speak our language, ’tis our will That some plain man recount their purposes. Know what they would.
BOYET. What would you with the Princess?
BEROWNE. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.
ROSALINE. What would they, say they?
BOYET. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.
ROSALINE. Why, that they have, and bid them so be gone.
BOYET. She says you have it, and you may be gone.
KING. Say to her we have measured many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass.
BOYET. They say that they have measured many a mile To tread a measure with you on this grass.
ROSALINE. It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile? If they have measured many, The measure then of one is easily told.
BOYET. If to come hither you have measured miles, And many miles, the Princess bids you tell How many inches doth fill up one mile.
BEROWNE. Tell her we measure them by weary steps.
BOYET. She hears herself.
ROSALINE. How many weary steps Of many weary miles you have o’ergone Are numbered in the travel of one mile?
BEROWNE. We number nothing that we spend for you. Our duty is so rich, so infinite, That we may do it still without account. Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, That we, like savages, may worship it.
ROSALINE. My face is but a moon, and clouded too.
KING. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do! Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine, Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne.
ROSALINE. O vain petitioner! Beg a greater matter! Thou now requests but moonshine in the water.
KING. Then in our measure do but vouchsafe one change. Thou bidd’st me beg; this begging is not strange.
ROSALINE. Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.
[Music plays.]
Not yet? No dance! Thus change I like the moon.
KING. Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged?
ROSALINE. You took the moon at full, but now she’s changed.
KING. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. The music plays, vouchsafe some motion to it.
ROSALINE. Our ears vouchsafe it.
KING. But your legs should do it.
ROSALINE. Since you are strangers and come here by chance, We’ll not be nice. Take hands. We will not dance.
KING. Why take we hands then?
ROSALINE. Only to part friends. Curtsy, sweet hearts, and so the measure ends.
KING. More measure of this measure! Be not nice.
ROSALINE. We can afford no more at such a price.
KING. Price you yourselves? What buys your company?
ROSALINE. Your absence only.
KING. That can never be.
ROSALINE. Then cannot we be bought. And so adieu— Twice to your visor, and half once to you!
KING. If you deny to dance, let’s hold more chat.
ROSALINE. In private then.
KING. I am best pleased with that.
[They converse apart.]
BEROWNE. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.
PRINCESS. Honey, and milk, and sugar: there is three.
BEROWNE. Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice, Metheglin, wort, and malmsey. Well run, dice! There’s half a dozen sweets.
PRINCESS. Seventh sweet, adieu. Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you.
BEROWNE. One word in secret.
PRINCESS. Let it not be sweet.
BEROWNE. Thou griev’st my gall.
PRINCESS. Gall! Bitter.
BEROWNE. Therefore meet.
[They converse apart.]
DUMAINE. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?
MARIA. Name it.
DUMAINE. Fair lady—
MARIA. Say you so? Fair lord! Take that for your “fair lady”.
DUMAINE. Please it you, As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu.
[They converse apart.]
KATHARINE. What, was your visor made without a tongue?
LONGAVILLE. I know the reason, lady, why you ask.
KATHARINE. O, for your reason! Quickly, sir, I long.
LONGAVILLE. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless visor half.
KATHARINE. “Veal”, quoth the Dutchman. Is not veal a calf?
LONGAVILLE. A calf, fair lady?
KATHARINE. No, a fair lord calf.
LONGAVILLE. Let’s part the word.
KATHARINE. No, I’ll not be your half. Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox.
LONGAVILLE. Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks. Will you give horns, chaste lady? Do not so.
KATHARINE. Then die a calf before your horns do grow.
LONGAVILLE. One word in private with you ere I die.
KATHARINE. Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry.
[They converse apart.]
BOYET. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor’s edge invisible, Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen; Above the sense of sense, so sensible Seemeth their conference. Their conceits have wings Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.
ROSALINE. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.
BEROWNE. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
KING. Farewell, mad wenches. You have simple wits.
[Exeunt King, Lords and Blackamoors.]
PRINCESS. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. Are these the breed of wits so wondered at?
BOYET. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puffed out.
ROSALINE. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.
PRINCESS. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves tonight? Or ever but in vizors show their faces? This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite.
ROSALINE. They were all in lamentable cases. The King was weeping-ripe for a good word.
PRINCESS. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit.
MARIA. Dumaine was at my service, and his sword. “Non point,” quoth I; my servant straight was mute.
KATHARINE. Lord Longaville said I came o’er his heart; And trow you what he called me?
PRINCESS. Qualm, perhaps.
KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith.
PRINCESS. Go, sickness as thou art!
ROSALINE. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? The King is my love sworn.
PRINCESS. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me.
KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my service born.
MARIA. Dumaine is mine as sure as bark on tree.
BOYET. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear. Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes, for it can never be They will digest this harsh indignity.
PRINCESS. Will they return?
BOYET. They will, they will, God knows, And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows. Therefore, change favours and, when they repair, Blow like sweet roses in this summer air.
PRINCESS. How “blow”? How “blow”? Speak to be understood.
BOYET. Fair ladies masked are roses in their bud. Dismasked, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
PRINCESS. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo?
ROSALINE. Good madam, if by me you’ll be advised, Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguised. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguised like Muscovites in shapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penned, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us.
BOYET. Ladies, withdraw. The gallants are at hand.
PRINCESS. Whip to our tents, as roes run o’er the land.
[Exeunt Princess, Rosaline, Katharine and Maria.]
Enter the King, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine as themselves.
KING. Fair sir, God save you. Where’s the Princess?
BOYET. Gone to her tent. Please it your Majesty Command me any service to her thither?
KING. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.
BOYET. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.
[Exit.]
BEROWNE. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas And utters it again when God doth please. He is wit’s pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve. Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. He can carve too, and lisp. Why, this is he That kissed his hand away in courtesy. This is the ape of form, Monsieur the Nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms. Nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet. The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. This is the flower that smiles on everyone, To show his teeth as white as whale’s bone; And consciences that will not die in debt Pay him the due of “honey-tongued Boyet”.
KING. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart, That put Armado’s page out of his part!
Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine with Boyet.
BEROWNE. See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou Till this man showed thee, and what art thou now?
KING. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day.
PRINCESS. “Fair” in “all hail” is foul, as I conceive.
KING. Construe my speeches better, if you may.
PRINCESS. Then wish me better. I will give you leave.
KING. We came to visit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court. Vouchsafe it then.
PRINCESS. This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow. Nor God nor I delights in perjured men.
KING. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke. The virtue of your eye must break my oath.
PRINCESS. You nickname virtue: “vice” you should have spoke; For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house’s guest, So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity.
KING. O, you have lived in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.
PRINCESS. Not so, my lord. It is not so, I swear. We have had pastimes here and pleasant game. A mess of Russians left us but of late.
KING. How, madam? Russians?
PRINCESS. Ay, in truth, my lord. Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state.
ROSALINE. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord. My lady, to the manner of the days, In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four indeed confronted were with four In Russian habit. Here they stayed an hour And talked apace; and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools; but this I think, When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.
BEROWNE. This jest is dry to me. My gentle sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish. When we greet, With eyes’ best seeing, heaven’s fiery eye, By light we lose light. Your capacity Is of that nature that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor.
ROSALINE. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye—
BEROWNE. I am a fool, and full of poverty.
ROSALINE. But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.
BEROWNE. O, I am yours, and all that I possess.
ROSALINE. All the fool mine?
BEROWNE. I cannot give you less.
ROSALINE. Which of the visors was it that you wore?
BEROWNE. Where, when, what visor? Why demand you this?
ROSALINE. There, then, that visor; that superfluous case That hid the worse and showed the better face.
KING. We are descried. They’ll mock us now downright.
DUMAINE. Let us confess and turn it to a jest.
PRINCESS. Amazed, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad?
ROSALINE. Help! Hold his brows! He’ll swoon. Why look you pale? Seasick, I think, coming from Muscovy.
BEROWNE. Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury. Can any face of brass hold longer out? Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me. Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout, Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance, Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit, And I will wish thee never more to dance, Nor never more in Russian habit wait. O, never will I trust to speeches penned, Nor to the motion of a school-boy’s tongue, Nor never come in visor to my friend, Nor woo in rhyme like a blind harper’s song. Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation, Figures pedantical: these summer flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation. I do forswear them, and I here protest, By this white glove—how white the hand, God knows!— Henceforth my wooing mind shall be expressed In russet yeas and honest kersey noes. And, to begin: wench, so God help me, law, My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
ROSALINE. Sans “sans,” I pray you.
BEROWNE. Yet I have a trick Of the old rage. Bear with me, I am sick; I’ll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see: Write “Lord have mercy on us” on those three. They are infected; in their hearts it lies; They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes. These lords are visited. You are not free, For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see.
PRINCESS. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.
BEROWNE. Our states are forfeit. Seek not to undo us.
ROSALINE. It is not so. For how can this be true, That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?
BEROWNE. Peace! for I will not have to do with you.
ROSALINE. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.
BEROWNE. Speak for yourselves. My wit is at an end.
KING. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression Some fair excuse.
PRINCESS. The fairest is confession. Were not you here but even now, disguised?
KING. Madam, I was.
PRINCESS. And were you well advised?
KING. I was, fair madam.
PRINCESS. When you then were here, What did you whisper in your lady’s ear?
KING. That more than all the world I did respect her.
PRINCESS. When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.
KING. Upon mine honour, no.
PRINCESS. Peace, peace, forbear! Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.
KING. Despise me when I break this oath of mine.
PRINCESS. I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline, What did the Russian whisper in your ear?
ROSALINE. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world; adding thereto, moreover, That he would wed me, or else die my lover.
PRINCESS. God give thee joy of him! The noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word.
KING. What mean you, madam? By my life, my troth, I never swore this lady such an oath.
ROSALINE. By heaven, you did! And to confirm it plain, You gave me this. But take it, sir, again.
KING. My faith and this the Princess I did give. I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.
PRINCESS. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear, And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear. What, will you have me, or your pearl again?
BEROWNE. Neither of either; I remit both twain. I see the trick on’t. Here was a consent, Knowing aforehand of our merriment, To dash it like a Christmas comedy. Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick, That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she’s disposed, Told our intents before; which once disclosed, The ladies did change favours, and then we, Following the signs, wooed but the sign of she. Now, to our perjury to add more terror, We are again forsworn in will and error. Much upon this ’tis. [To Boyet.] And might not you Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue? Do not you know my lady’s foot by th’ squier, And laugh upon the apple of her eye? And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, Holding a trencher, jesting merrily? You put our page out. Go, you are allowed; Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you? There’s an eye Wounds like a leaden sword.
BOYET. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.
BEROWNE. Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done.
Enter Costard.
Welcome, pure wit! Thou part’st a fair fray.
COSTARD. O Lord, sir, they would know Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no.
BEROWNE. What, are there but three?
COSTARD. No, sir; but it is vara fine, For every one pursents three.
BEROWNE. And three times thrice is nine.
COSTARD. Not so, sir, under correction, sir, I hope it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know. I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir—
BEROWNE. Is not nine?
COSTARD. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.
BEROWNE. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.
COSTARD. O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir.
BEROWNE. How much is it?
COSTARD. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount. For mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man—Pompion the Great, sir.
BEROWNE. Art thou one of the Worthies?
COSTARD. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompey the Great. For mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him.
BEROWNE. Go bid them prepare.
COSTARD. We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care.
[Exit Costard.]
KING. Berowne, they will shame us. Let them not approach.
BEROWNE. We are shame-proof, my lord, and ’tis some policy To have one show worse than the King’s and his company.
KING. I say they shall not come.
PRINCESS. Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now. That sport best pleases that doth least know how, Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Die in the zeal of that which it presents; Their form confounded makes most form in mirth, When great things labouring perish in their birth.
BEROWNE. A right description of our sport, my lord.
Enter Armado, the Braggart.
ARMADO. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words.
[Armado and King talk apart.]
PRINCESS. Doth this man serve God?
BEROWNE. Why ask you?
PRINCESS. He speaks not like a man of God his making.
ARMADO. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too, too vain, too, too vain. But we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement!
[Exit.]
KING. Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado’s page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus. _And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive, These four will change habits and present the other five._
BEROWNE. There is five in the first show.
KING. You are deceived. ’Tis not so.
BEROWNE. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy. Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.
KING. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.
Enter Costard as Pompey.
COSTARD. I Pompey am—
BEROWNE. You lie, you are not he.
COSTARD. I Pompey am—
BOYET. With leopard’s head on knee.
BEROWNE. Well said, old mocker. I must needs be friends with thee.
COSTARD. I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big.
DUMAINE. The “Great”.
COSTARD. It is “Great”, sir; _Pompey surnamed the Great, That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat. And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance, And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France._ If your ladyship would say, “Thanks, Pompey”, I had done.
PRINCESS. Great thanks, great Pompey.
COSTARD. ’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in “Great”.
BEROWNE. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.
Enter Nathaniel, the Curate, for Alexander.
NATHANIEL. _When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might. My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander._
BOYET. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right.
BEROWNE. Your nose smells “no” in this, most tender-smelling knight.
PRINCESS. The conqueror is dismayed. Proceed, good Alexander.
NATHANIEL. When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander—
BOYET. Most true; ’tis right. You were so, Alisander.
BEROWNE. Pompey the Great—
COSTARD. Your servant, and Costard.
BEROWNE. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.
COSTARD. [To Sir Nathaniel.] O sir, you have overthrown Alisander the Conqueror. You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this. Your lion, that holds his pole-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax. He will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak? Run away for shame, Alisander. [Nathaniel retires.] There, an’t shall please you, a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for Alisander, alas you see how ’tis—a little o’erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort.
PRINCESS. Stand aside, good Pompey.
Enter Holofernes, the Pedant, as Judas, and Moth, the Boy, as Hercules.
HOLOFERNES. _Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club killed Cerberus, that three-headed_ canus, _And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp, Thus did he strangle serpents in his_ manus. Quoniam he seemeth in minority, Ergo I come with this apology. Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.
[Moth retires.]
Judas I am.—
DUMAINE. A Judas!
HOLOFERNES. Not Iscariot, sir. Judas I am, ycleped Maccabaeus.
DUMAINE. Judas Maccabaeus clipped is plain Judas.
BEROWNE. A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Judas?
HOLOFERNES. Judas I am—
DUMAINE. The more shame for you, Judas.
HOLOFERNES. What mean you, sir?
BOYET. To make Judas hang himself.
HOLOFERNES. Begin, sir; you are my elder.
BEROWNE. Well followed. Judas was hanged on an elder.
HOLOFERNES. I will not be put out of countenance.
BEROWNE. Because thou hast no face.
HOLOFERNES. What is this?
BOYET. A cittern-head.
DUMAINE. The head of a bodkin.
BEROWNE. A death’s face in a ring.
LONGAVILLE. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.
BOYET. The pommel of Caesar’s falchion.
DUMAINE. The carved-bone face on a flask.
BEROWNE. Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch.
DUMAINE. Ay, and in a brooch of lead.
BEROWNE. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. And now forward, for we have put thee in countenance.
HOLOFERNES. You have put me out of countenance.
BEROWNE. False. We have given thee faces.
HOLOFERNES. But you have outfaced them all.
BEROWNE. An thou wert a lion, we would do so.
BOYET. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. And so adieu, sweet Jude. Nay, why dost thou stay?
DUMAINE. For the latter end of his name.
BEROWNE. For the ass to the Jude? Give it him. Jud-as, away!
HOLOFERNES. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.
BOYET. A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark; he may stumble.
[Exit Holofernes.]
PRINCESS. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited!
Enter Armado, the Braggart, as Hector.
BEROWNE. Hide thy head, Achilles. Here comes Hector in arms.
DUMAINE. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.
KING. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this.
BOYET. But is this Hector?
DUMAINE. I think Hector was not so clean-timbered.
LONGAVILLE. His leg is too big for Hector’s.
DUMAINE. More calf, certain.
BOYET. No, he is best endued in the small.
BEROWNE. This cannot be Hector.
DUMAINE. He’s a god or a painter, for he makes faces.
ARMADO. _The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift_—
DUMAINE. A gilt nutmeg.
BEROWNE. A lemon.
LONGAVILLE. Stuck with cloves.
DUMAINE. No, cloven.
ARMADO. Peace! _The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion; A man so breathed that certain he would fight, yea, From morn till night, out of his pavilion. I am that flower_—
DUMAINE. That mint.
LONGAVILLE. That columbine.
ARMADO. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.
LONGAVILLE. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.
DUMAINE. Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound.
ARMADO. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten. Sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried. When he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the Princess.] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.
PRINCESS. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.
ARMADO. I do adore thy sweet Grace’s slipper.
BOYET. Loves her by the foot.
DUMAINE. He may not by the yard.
ARMADO. _This Hector far surmounted Hannibal. The party is gone_—
COSTARD. Fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way.
ARMADO. What meanest thou?
COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, the poor wench is cast away. She’s quick; the child brags in her belly already. ’Tis yours.
ARMADO. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die.
COSTARD. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.
DUMAINE. Most rare Pompey!
BOYET. Renowned Pompey!
BEROWNE. Greater than “Great”! Great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge!
DUMAINE. Hector trembles.
BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on, stir them on!
DUMAINE. Hector will challenge him.
BEROWNE. Ay, if he have no more man’s blood in his belly than will sup a flea.
ARMADO. By the north pole, I do challenge thee.
COSTARD. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man. I’ll slash, I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again.
DUMAINE. Room for the incensed Worthies!
COSTARD. I’ll do it in my shirt.
DUMAINE. Most resolute Pompey!
MOTH. Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation.
ARMADO. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me. I will not combat in my shirt.
DUMAINE. You may not deny it. Pompey hath made the challenge.
ARMADO. Sweet bloods, I both may and will.
BEROWNE. What reason have you for ’t?
ARMADO. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go woolward for penance.
BOYET. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that he wears next his heart for a favour.
Enter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcadé.
MARCADÉ. God save you, madam.
PRINCESS. Welcome, Marcadé, But that thou interruptest our merriment.
MARCADÉ. I am sorry, madam, for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father—
PRINCESS. Dead, for my life!
MARCADÉ. Even so. My tale is told.
BEROWNE. Worthies away! The scene begins to cloud.
ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.
[Exeunt Worthies.]
KING. How fares your Majesty?
PRINCESS. Boyet, prepare. I will away tonight.
KING. Madam, not so. I do beseech you stay.
PRINCESS. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours, and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits, If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath; your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue. Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtained.
KING. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All causes to the purpose of his speed, And often at his very loose decides That which long process could not arbitrate. And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would convince, Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow jostle it From what it purposed; since to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found.
PRINCESS. I understand you not. My griefs are double.
BEROWNE. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the King. For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Played foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies, Hath much deformed us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents; And what in us hath seemed ridiculous— As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, Formed by the eye and therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms, Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance; Which parti-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities, Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both—fair ladies, you. And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.
PRINCESS. We have received your letters, full of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And in our maiden council rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time. But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment.
DUMAINE. Our letters, madam, showed much more than jest.
LONGAVILLE. So did our looks.
ROSALINE. We did not quote them so.
KING. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves.
PRINCESS. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjured much, Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this: If for my love—as there is no such cause— You will do aught, this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust, but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the world, There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in heat of blood; If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds, Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, But that it bear this trial, and last love; Then, at the expiration of the year, Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts, And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine. And, till that instance, shut My woeful self up in a mournful house, Raining the tears of lamentation For the remembrance of my father’s death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither entitled in the other’s heart.
KING. If this, or more than this, I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! Hence hermit, then. My heart is in thy breast.
[They converse apart]
DUMAINE. And what to me, my love? But what to me? A wife?
KATHARINE. A beard, fair health, and honesty; With threefold love I wish you all these three.
DUMAINE. O, shall I say, “I thank you, gentle wife”?
KATHARINE. No so, my lord. A twelvemonth and a day I’ll mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say. Come when the King doth to my lady come; Then, if I have much love, I’ll give you some.
DUMAINE. I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then.
KATHARINE. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.
[They converse apart]
LONGAVILLE. What says Maria?
MARIA. At the twelvemonth’s end I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.
LONGAVILLE. I’ll stay with patience, but the time is long.
MARIA. The liker you; few taller are so young.
[They converse apart]
BEROWNE. Studies my lady? Mistress, look on me. Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, What humble suit attends thy answer there. Impose some service on me for thy love.
ROSALINE. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne, Before I saw you; and the world’s large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, Which you on all estates will execute That lie within the mercy of your wit. To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won, You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit To enforce the pained impotent to smile.
BEROWNE. To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be, it is impossible. Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
ROSALINE. Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it. Then, if sickly ears, Deafed with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, And I will have you and that fault withal; But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation.
BEROWNE. A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall, I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.
PRINCESS. [To the King.] Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave.
KING. No, madam, we will bring you on your way.
BEROWNE. Our wooing doth not end like an old play. Jack hath not Jill. These ladies’ courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy.
KING. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then ’twill end.
BEROWNE. That’s too long for a play.
Enter Armado, the Braggart.
ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me—
PRINCESS. Was not that Hector?
DUMAINE. The worthy knight of Troy.
ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three year. But, most esteemed Greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show.
KING. Call them forth quickly; we will do so.
ARMADO. Holla! Approach.
Enter all.
This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, th’ other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin.
The Song
SPRING. When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men; for thus sings he: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
WINTER. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl: “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo!” A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl: “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo!” A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
ARMADO. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You that way, we this way.
[Exeunt.]
THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH
Dramatis Personæ
DUNCAN, King of Scotland. MALCOLM, his Son. DONALBAIN, his Son. MACBETH, General in the King’s Army. BANQUO, General in the King’s Army. MACDUFF, Nobleman of Scotland. LENNOX, Nobleman of Scotland. ROSS, Nobleman of Scotland. MENTEITH, Nobleman of Scotland. ANGUS, Nobleman of Scotland. CAITHNESS, Nobleman of Scotland. FLEANCE, Son to Banquo. SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, General of the English Forces. YOUNG SIWARD, his Son. SEYTON, an Officer attending on Macbeth. BOY, Son to Macduff. An English Doctor. A Scottish Doctor. A Soldier. A Porter. An Old Man.
LADY MACBETH. LADY MACDUFF. Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. HECATE, and three Witches.
Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants and Messengers.
The Ghost of Banquo and several other Apparitions.
SCENE: In the end of the Fourth Act, in England; through the rest of the Play, in Scotland; and chiefly at Macbeth’s Castle.
Act I, Scene I — An open Place
Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.
THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun.
FIRST WITCH. Where the place?
SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath.
THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth.
FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin!
SECOND WITCH. Paddock calls.
THIRD WITCH. Anon.
ALL. Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene II — A Camp near Forres
Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Captain.
DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state.
MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought ’Gainst my captivity.—Hail, brave friend! Say to the King the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it.
SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald (Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him) from the Western Isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show’d like a rebel’s whore. But all’s too weak; For brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name), Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish’d steel, Which smok’d with bloody execution, Like Valour’s minion, carv’d out his passage, Till he fac’d the slave; Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chops, And fix’d his head upon our battlements.
DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!
SOLDIER. As whence the sun ’gins his reflection Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break, So from that spring, whence comfort seem’d to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valour arm’d, Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault.
DUNCAN. Dismay’d not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?
SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg’d with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell— But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.
DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds: They smack of honour both.—Go, get him surgeons.
[Exit Captain, attended.]
Enter Ross and Angus.
Who comes here?
MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross.
LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange.
ROSS. God save the King!
DUNCAN. Whence cam’st thou, worthy thane?
ROSS. From Fife, great King, Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor, The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point, rebellious arm ’gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us.
DUNCAN. Great happiness!
ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s Inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth.
ROSS. I’ll see it done.
DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene III — A heath
Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister?
SECOND WITCH. Killing swine.
THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou?
FIRST WITCH. A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch’d, and mounch’d, and mounch’d. “Give me,” quoth I. “Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ th’ Tiger: But in a sieve I’ll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.
SECOND WITCH. I’ll give thee a wind.
FIRST WITCH. Th’art kind.
THIRD WITCH. And I another.
FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other, And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I’ the shipman’s card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid. Weary sev’n-nights nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have.
SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me.
FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot’s thumb, Wrack’d as homeward he did come.
[Drum within.]
THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.
ALL. The Weird Sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine. Peace!—the charm’s wound up.
Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
BANQUO. How far is’t call’d to Forres?—What are these, So wither’d, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o’ th’ earth, And yet are on’t?—Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.
MACBETH. Speak, if you can;—what are you?
FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!
THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter!
BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?—I’ th’ name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate.
FIRST WITCH. Hail!
SECOND WITCH. Hail!
THIRD WITCH. Hail!
FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier.
THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?—Speak, I charge you.
[Witches vanish.]
BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d?
MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem’d corporal, Melted as breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d!
BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?
MACBETH. Your children shall be kings.
BANQUO. You shall be king.
MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?
BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s here?
Enter Ross and Angus.
ROSS. The King hath happily receiv’d, Macbeth, The news of thy success, and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc’d with that, In viewing o’er the rest o’ th’ selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as tale Came post with post; and everyone did bear Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, And pour’d them down before him.
ANGUS. We are sent To give thee from our royal master thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee.
ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honour, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine.
BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true?
MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow’d robes?
ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet, But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin’d With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not; But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d, Have overthrown him.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus.] Thanks for your pains. [To Banquo.] Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis’d no less to them?
BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s In deepest consequence.— Cousins, a word, I pray you.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.— [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smother’d in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
BANQUO. Look, how our partner’s rapt.
MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir.
BANQUO. New honours come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.
MACBETH. Give me your favour. My dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register’d where every day I turn The leaf to read them.—Let us toward the King.— Think upon what hath chanc’d; and at more time, The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other.
BANQUO. Very gladly.
MACBETH. Till then, enough.—Come, friends.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene IV — Forres. A Room in the Palace
Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox and Attendants.
DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return’d?
MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die, who did report, That very frankly he confess’d his treasons, Implor’d your Highness’ pardon, and set forth A deep repentance. Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d As ’twere a careless trifle.
DUNCAN. There’s no art To find the mind’s construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.
Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Angus.
O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv’d; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay.
MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honour.
DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labour To make thee full of growing.—Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv’d, nor must be known No less to have done so, let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart.
BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own.
DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.—Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honour must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.—From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you.
MACBETH. The rest is labour, which is not us’d for you: I’ll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave.
DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor!
MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland!—That is a step On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
[Exit.]
DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo! He is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed. It is a banquet to me. Let’s after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene V — Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle
Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.
LADY MACBETH. “They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfect’st report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the King, who all-hailed me, ‘Thane of Cawdor’; by which title, before, these Weird Sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with ‘Hail, king that shalt be!’ This have I thought good to deliver thee (my dearest partner of greatness) that thou might’st not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promis’d thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.”
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou’dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, “Thus thou must do,” if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown’d withal.
Enter a Messenger.
What is your tidings?
MESSENGER. The King comes here tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Thou’rt mad to say it. Is not thy master with him? who, were’t so, Would have inform’d for preparation.
MESSENGER. So please you, it is true. Our thane is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message.
LADY MACBETH. Give him tending. He brings great news.
[Exit Messenger.]
The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, “Hold, hold!”
Enter Macbeth.
Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant.
MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight.
LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence?
MACBETH. Tomorrow, as he purposes.
LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t. He that’s coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night’s great business into my dispatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.
MACBETH. We will speak further.
LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favour ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene VI — The same. Before the Castle
Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus and Attendants.
DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses.
BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d The air is delicate.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
DUNCAN. See, see, our honour’d hostess!— The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ’ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble.
LADY MACBETH. All our service, In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your Majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap’d up to them, We rest your hermits.
DUNCAN. Where’s the Thane of Cawdor? We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your Highness’ pleasure, Still to return your own.
DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene VII — The same. A Lobby in the Castle
Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well It were done quickly. If th’ assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch With his surcease success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all—here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We’d jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice Commends th’ ingredience of our poison’d chalice To our own lips. He’s here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin, hors’d Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself And falls on th’ other—
Enter Lady Macbeth.
How now! what news?
LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp’d. Why have you left the chamber?
MACBETH. Hath he ask’d for me?
LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has?
MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour’d me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon.
LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress’d yourself? Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,” Like the poor cat i’ th’ adage?
MACBETH. Pr’ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.
LADY MACBETH. What beast was’t, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.
MACBETH. If we should fail?
LADY MACBETH. We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we’ll not fail. When Duncan is asleep (Whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey Soundly invite him), his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon Th’ unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell?
MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv’d, When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us’d their very daggers, That they have done’t?
LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar Upon his death?
MACBETH. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
[Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene I — Inverness. Court within the Castle
Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch before him.
BANQUO. How goes the night, boy?
FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve.
FLEANCE. I take’t, ’tis later, sir.
BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.—There’s husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!
Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch.
Give me my sword.—Who’s there?
MACBETH. A friend.
BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The King’s abed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your offices. This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up In measureless content.
MACBETH. Being unprepar’d, 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 show’d 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.
MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent, when ’tis, It shall make honour for you.
BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis’d, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell’d.
MACBETH. Good repose the while!
BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you.
[Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.]
MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.
[Exit Servant.]
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, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As 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’ the 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 informs Thus to mine eyes.—Now o’er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain’d sleep. Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s off’rings; and wither’d murder, Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives. Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
[A bell rings.]
I go, and it is done. The bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
[Exit.]
Act II, Scene II — The same
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench’d them hath given me fire.—Hark!—Peace! It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern’st good night. He is about it. The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die.
MACBETH. [Within.] Who’s there?—what, ho!
LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d, And ’tis not done. Th’ attempt and not the deed Confounds us.—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss ’em.—Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done’t.—My husband!
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. I have done the deed.—Didst thou not hear a noise?
LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?
MACBETH. When?
LADY MACBETH. Now.
MACBETH. As I descended?
LADY MACBETH. Ay.
MACBETH. Hark!—Who lies i’ th’ second chamber?
LADY MACBETH. Donalbain.
MACBETH. This is a sorry sight.
[Looking on his hands.]
LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
MACBETH. There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one cried, “Murder!” That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them. But they did say their prayers, and address’d them Again to sleep.
LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg’d together.
MACBETH. One cried, “God bless us!” and, “Amen,” the other, As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands. List’ning their fear, I could not say “Amen,” When they did say, “God bless us.”
LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply.
MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce “Amen”? I had most need of blessing, and “Amen” Stuck in my throat.
LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
MACBETH. Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
LADY MACBETH. What do you mean?
MACBETH. Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to all the house: “Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more!”
LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.— Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them, and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.
MACBETH. I’ll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on’t again I dare not.
LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures. ’Tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt.
[Exit. Knocking within.]
MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is’t with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.—[Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers. Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.
MACBETH. To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!
[Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene III — The same
Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
PORTER. Here’s a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Belzebub? Here’s a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you’ll sweat for’t. [Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ th’ other devil’s name? Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? Faith, here’s an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose. [Knocking.] Knock, knock. Never at quiet! What are you?—But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to th’ everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter.
[Opens the gate.]
Enter Macduff and Lennox.
MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late?
PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.
MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke?
PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him.
MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.
PORTER. That it did, sir, i’ the very throat on me; but I requited him for his lie; and (I think) being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him.
MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?
Enter Macbeth.
Our knocking has awak’d him; here he comes.
LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir!
MACBETH. Good morrow, both!
MACDUFF. Is the King stirring, worthy thane?
MACBETH. Not yet.
MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him. I have almost slipp’d the hour.
MACBETH. I’ll bring you to him.
MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet ’tis one.
MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door.
MACDUFF. I’ll make so bold to call. For ’tis my limited service.
[Exit Macduff.]
LENNOX. Goes the King hence today?
MACBETH. He does. He did appoint so.
LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down and, as they say, Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death, And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus’d events, New hatch’d to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamour’d the live-long night. Some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake.
MACBETH. ’Twas a rough night.
LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it.
Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!
MACBETH, LENNOX. What’s the matter?
MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence The life o’ th’ building.
MACBETH. What is’t you say? the life?
LENNOX. Mean you his majesty?
MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak. See, and then speak yourselves.
[Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.]
Awake, awake!— Ring the alarum bell.—Murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, And look on death itself! Up, up, and see The great doom’s image. Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror!
[Alarum-bell rings.]
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. What’s the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!
MACDUFF. O gentle lady, ’Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman’s ear, Would murder as it fell.
Enter Banquo.
O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master’s murder’d!
LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house?
BANQUO. Too cruel anywhere.— Dear Duff, I pr’ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so.
Enter Macbeth and Lennox with Ross.
MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.
Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.
DONALBAIN. What is amiss?
MACBETH. You are, and do not know’t: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d.
MACDUFF. Your royal father’s murder’d.
MALCOLM. O, by whom?
LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done’t: Their hands and faces were all badg’d with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip’d, we found Upon their pillows. They star’d, and were distracted; No man’s life was to be trusted with them.
MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them.
MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so?
MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz’d, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: Th’ expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood; And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech’d with gore. Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make’s love known?
LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho!
MACDUFF. Look to the lady.
MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours?
DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let’s away. Our tears are not yet brew’d.
MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion.
BANQUO. Look to the lady:—
[Lady Macbeth is carried out.]
And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight Of treasonous malice.
MACDUFF. And so do I.
ALL. So all.
MACBETH. Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i’ th’ hall together.
ALL. Well contented.
[Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.]
MALCOLM. What will you do? Let’s not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England.
DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are, There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody.
MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that’s shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away. There’s warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.
[Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene IV — The same. Without the Castle
Enter Ross and an Old Man.
OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well, Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings.
ROSS. Ha, good father, Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man’s act, Threatens his bloody stage: by the clock ’tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp. Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it?
OLD MAN. ’Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.
ROSS. And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange and certain) Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind.
OLD MAN. ’Tis said they eat each other.
ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look’d upon’t. Here comes the good Macduff.
Enter Macduff.
How goes the world, sir, now?
MACDUFF. Why, see you not?
ROSS. Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed?
MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain.
ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend?
MACDUFF. They were suborn’d. Malcolm and Donalbain, the King’s two sons, Are stol’n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed.
ROSS. ’Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up Thine own life’s means!—Then ’tis most like The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.
MACDUFF. He is already nam’d; and gone to Scone To be invested.
ROSS. Where is Duncan’s body?
MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones.
ROSS. Will you to Scone?
MACDUFF. No, cousin, I’ll to Fife.
ROSS. Well, I will thither.
MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there. Adieu! Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!
ROSS. Farewell, father.
OLD MAN. God’s benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!
[Exeunt.]