[Macbeth continued.

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.

Mur.

Act iii. Sc. I.

We are men, my liege.

Mac. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men.

Act iii. Sc. I.

Things without all remedy,

Should be without regard: what's done is done.

Act iii. Sc. 2.

We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it.

Act iii. Sc. 2.

Better be with the dead,

Whom we to gain our peace have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie

In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;

Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poi

Now spurs the lated traveller apace,

To gain the timely inn.

But now, I am cabin'd, cribb'd,

To saucy doubts and fears.

Act iii. Sc. 3.

confin'd, bound in

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Macbeth continued.]

Now, good digestion wait on appetite,

And health on both!

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Thou canst not say I did it: never shake

Thy gory locks at me.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

The times have been,

That, when the brains were out, the man would

die,

And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes,

Which thou dost glare with!

What man dare, I dare:

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

And overcome us like a summer's cloud,

Without our special wonder?

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Stand not upon the order of your going,

But go at once.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Double, double toil and trouble.

Eye of newt, and toe of frog.

Black spirits and white,
Red spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
You that mingle may.'

[Macbeth continued.

Act iv. Sc. I.

Act iv. Sc. I.

Act iv. Sc. I.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes :
Open, locks, whoever knocks.

Act iv. Sc. I.

How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?

What! will the line stretch out to the crack of

1 This song is found entire in "The Witch" by Thomas Middleton, Act v. Sc. 2, (Works, ed. Dyce,) iii. 328, and is there called A charme Song about a Vessel.

Macbeth continued.]

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

Stands Scotland where it did?

Act iv. Sc. 3.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. Act iv. Sc. 3.

What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,

At one fell swoop?

Act iv. Sc. 3.

I cannot but remember such things were,

That were most precious to me.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,

And braggart with my tongue!

Out, damned spot! out, I say!

Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and

Act iv. Sc. 3.

Act v. Sc. 1. afeard?

Act v. Sc. I.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

My way of life1

Act v. Sc. I.

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, and dare
Act v. Sc. 3.

not.

1 Johnson would read, 'May of life.'

[Macbeth continued.

Doct.

Not so sick, my lord,

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,

That keep her from her rest.

Macb.

Cure her of that:

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

Doct.

Must minister to himself.

Therein the patient

Mach. Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none

of it.

Act v. Sc. 3.

I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again.

Act v. Sc. 3.

Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir,
As life were in 't. I have supp'd full with hor-
Act v. Sc. 5.

rors.

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!