Enter a Porter. Knocking within
Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of
hell-gate, he should have old turning the key.
Knock, knock, knock! Who's there i'the 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.
Knock, knock! Who's there in the 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.
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.
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 the everlasting bonfire.
Anon, anon! I pray you remember the porter.
He opens the gate. Enter Macduff and Lennox
Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,
That you do lie so late?
Faith sir, we were carousing till the second
cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.
What three things does drink especially
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.
I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.
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.
Is thy master stirring?
Our knocking has awaked him; here he comes.
Good morrow, noble sir.
Good morrow both.
Is the King stirring, worthy thane?
He did command me to call timely on him.
I have almost slipped the hour.
I'll bring you to him.
I know this is a joyful trouble to you,
But yet 'tis one.
The labour we delight in physics pain.
effort, endeavour, exertion, labour
This is the door.
I'll make so bold to call,
For 'tis my limited service.
Goes the King hence today?
He does; he did appoint so.
The night has been unruly. Where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down, and, as they say,
Lamentings heard i'the air, strange screams of death,
And prophesying, with accents terrible,
Of dire combustion and confused events
New-hatched to the woeful time. The obscure bird
Clamoured the live-long night. Some say the earth
Was feverous and did shake.
'Twas a rough night.
My young remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it.
O horror, horror, horror!
Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!
MACBETH and LENNOX
What's the matter?
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece;
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple and stole thence
The life o'the building.
What is't you say? The life?
Mean you his majesty?
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
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. Ring the bell!
Enter Lady Macbeth
What's the business,
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley
The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!
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.
O Banquo, Banquo!
Our royal master's murdered!
What, in our house!
Too cruel, anywhere.
Dear Duff, I prithee contradict thyself
And say it is not so.
Enter Macbeth, Lennox, and Ross
Had I but died an hour before this chance
I had lived 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
What is amiss?
You are, and do not know't.
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood
Is stopped, the very source of it is stopped.
Your royal father's murdered.
O, by whom?
Those of his chamber, as it seemed, had done't:
Their hands and faces were all badged with blood,
So were their daggers, which unwiped, we found
Upon their pillows; they stared and were distracted;
No man's life was to be trusted with them.
O yet I do repent me of my fury,
That I did kill them.
Wherefore did you so?
Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,
Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
The expedition of my violent love
Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan,
His silver skin laced with his golden blood,
And his gashed stabs looked like a breach in nature
For ruin's wasteful entrance; there the murderers,
Steeped in the colours of their trade, their daggers
Unmannerly breeched with gore. Who could refrain,
That had a heart to love, and in that heart
Courage to make's love known?
Help me hence, ho!
Look to the lady!
Why do we hold our tongues,
That most may claim this argument for ours?
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 brewed.
Nor our strong sorrow upon the foot of motion.
Look to the lady!
Lady Macbeth is taken 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 undivulged pretence I fight
Of treasonous malice.
And so do I.
Let's briefly put on manly readiness,
And meet i'the hall together.
Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain
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.
To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune
Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are
There's daggers in men's smiles. The nea'er in blood,
The nearer bloody.
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.