Macd.

Humph! I guess at it. Rosse. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife and

babes,

Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
Were, on the quarry* of these murder'd deer,
To add the death of you.

Mal.
Merciful heaven!-
What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Macd. My children too?

Rosse.

That could be found.

Macd.

My wife kill'd too?

Rosse.

Mal.

Wife, children, servants, all

And I must be from thence!

I have said.

Be comforted:

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.

Macd. He has no children.-All my pretty ones?

Did you say, all?-O, hell-kite!-All?

What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop?

Mal. Dispute it like a man.

I shall do so;

I cannot but remember such things were,

That were most precious to me.-Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now! Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief

Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue!-But, gentle heaven,
Cut short all intermission;† front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself;
† All pause.

The game after it is killed.

Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven forgive him too!
Mal.
This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the king; our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you
may;

The night is long, that never finds the day.

ACT V.

SCENE.-Enter Lady MACBETH, with a taper. Gent. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

Doct. How came she by that light?

Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command.

Doct. You see her eyes are open.

Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doct. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

Gent. 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.

Lady M. Yet here's a spot.

Doct. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady M. 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 afear'd? 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?

Doct. Do

Lady M.

she now?

you

mark that?

The thane of Fife had a wife; Where is
What, will these hands ne'er be clean?

* Dark.

1

---No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: You mar all with this starting.

Doct. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known.

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

Doct. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body. Doct. Well, well, well,

Gent. 'Pray God, it be, sir.

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:-I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out of his grave.

Doct. Even so?

Lady M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Čome, come, come, come, give me your hand; What's done, cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to bed.

DESPISED OLD AGE.

I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fall'n into the sear,* the yellow leaf: And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but in their stead, Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.

DISEASES OF THE MIND INCURABLE.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,

* Dry.

Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?

REFLECTIONS ON LIFE.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.—

OTHELLO.

ACT I.

PREFERMENT.

"TIS the curse of service;

Preferment goes by letter, and affection,
Not by the old gradation, where each second,
Stood heir to the first.

IAGO'S DISPRAISE OF HONESTY.
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For nought but provender: and, when he's old,
cashier'd:

Whip me such honest knaves: Others there are,
Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves;
And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,
Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lin'd
their coats,

Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;
And such a one do I profess myself.

For, sir,

It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end:
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern,* 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my

sleeve

For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

LOVE, OTHELLO'S SOLE MOTIVE FOR MARRYING,
For know, lago,

But that I love the gentle Desdemona,

I would not my unhoused† free condition
Put into circumscription and confine

For the sea's worth.

OTHELLO'S DESCRIPTION ΤΟ THE SENATE OF HIS

WINNING THE AFFECTIONS OF DESDEMONA.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv'd good masters,
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace;

For since these arms of mine hath seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action‡ in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking for myself: Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver ·

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

What conjurations, and what mighty magic, (For such proceeding I am charg'd withal)

*Outward show of civility.

Best exertion.

† Unsettled.