[Macbeth continued.

Two truths are told,

As happy prologues to the swelling act

Of the imperial theme.

Acti. Sc. 3.

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs.

Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

Nothing in his life

Ibid.

Became him like the leaving it; he died,
As one that had been studied in his death,
To throw away the dearest thing he owed,
As 't were a careless trifle.
Act i. Sc. 4.

There's no art

To find the mind's construction in the face.

Yet do I fear thy nature:

Ibid.

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.

Acti. Sc. 5.

What thou wouldst highly,

That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,

And yet wouldst wrongly win.

Ibid.

That no compunctious visitings of nature.

Shake my fell purpose.

Ibid.

Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where men

May read strange matters: to beguile the time,

Macbeth continued.]

Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,

Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower,

But be the serpent under it.

Acti. Sc. 5.

Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.

Ibid.

Act i. Sc. 6.

The heaven's breath

Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,

Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird. Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd,

The air is delicate.

Ibid.

If it were done, when 't is done, then 't were well
It were done quickly: if the 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.
Acti. Sc. 7.

We but teach

Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor. This even-handed jus

tice

Commends the ingredientsof our poison'dchalice To our own lips.

Ibid.

[Macbeth continued.

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.

Act i. Sc. 7.

I have no spur

To prick the sides of my intent; but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'er-leaps itself,
And falls on the other.

Ibid.

I dare do all that may become a man ;
Who dares do more, is none.

Ibid.

But screw your courage to the sticking-place,

Macbeth continued.]

Shut up

In measureless content.

Act ii. Sc. I.

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?

Ibid.

Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going.

Ibid.

Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout.

Ibid.

Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell
That summons thee to Heaven or to Hell!

Ibid.

It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman Which gives the stern'st good night.

Confounds us.

Ibid.1

The attempt, and not the deed,

Ibid.1

I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.

Ibid.

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,

1 Act ii. Sc. 1, White, Dyce, Staunton. Act ii. Sc. 2, Cambridge, Singer, Knight.

[Macbeth continued.

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. Act ii. Sc. 1.1

Confusion now hath made his master-piece.
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence
The life o' the building.

Ibid.2

The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to brag of.

A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at,

Ibid.2

and killed.

Act ii. Sc. 2.3

I must become a borrower of the night,

For a dark hour, or twain.

Act iii. Sc. I.

Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown;
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine succeeding.

Ibid.

1 Act ii. Sc. 1, White, Dyce, Staunton. Act ii. Sc. 2, Cambridge, Singer, Knight.

2 Act ii. Sc. 1, White, Dyce. Act ii. Sc. 2, Staunton.

Act ii. Sc. 3, Cambridge, Singer, Knight.

3 Act ii. Sc. 2, White, Dyce. Act ii. Sc. 3, Staunton Act ii. Sc. 4, Cambridge, Singer, Knight.