I fear
Thou play’dst most foully for it.
My duties
Are with a most indissoluble tie
Forever knit.
To be thus is nothing,
But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo
Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature
Reigns that which would be feared.
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe.
Things without all remedy / Should be without regard –
what’s done is done.
I am a man. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
Which might appal the devil.
O proper stuff!
This is the very painting of your fear:
This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,
Led you to Duncan…
When all’s done
You look but on a stool.
Loves for his own ends, not for you…
And by the strength of their illusion
Shall draw him on to his confusion…
He shall spurn fate, scorn
death, and bear
His hopes ‘bove wisdom, grace
and fear…
Security
Is mortal’s chiefest enemy.
The gracious Duncan…the right valiant Banquo…to kill their
gracious father…How it did grieve Macbeth…
That a swift blessing
/ May soon return to this our suffering country, / Under a hand accursed.
Directions: Identify
the Speaker
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware
Macduff. Beware the thane of Fife.
Dismiss me. Enough.
The castle of Macduff I will surprise,
Seize upon Fife, give to th' edge o' th' sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool.
This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.
But no more sights!—
Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits.
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook
Unless the deed go with it. From this moment
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand.
Wisdom! To leave his wife, to leave his babes,
His mansion and his titles in a place
From whence himself does fly? He loves us not;
Let us rather hold fast the mortal
sword and like good men
bestride our downfall birthdom;
each new morn, new widows howl,
new orphans cry, new sorrows strike
heaven on the face, that it resounds
as if it felt with Scotland and
yell'd out like syllable of dolour.
But Macbeth is. A
good and virtuous
nature may recoil in an imperial charge.
But I shall crave your pardon;
hat which you are, my thoughts
cannot transpose;
Angels are bright still,
though the brightest fell.
Though all things foul would
wear the brows of grace,
yet grace must still look so.
Your castle is surprised, your wife and babes
Savagely slaughtered. To relate the manner,
Were, on the quarry of these murdered deer
To add the death of you.
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?
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much
blood in him?
Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of
Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of
the whole body.
What's done cannot be undone.
I have lived 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, and dare not.
I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
The time has been my senses would have cooled
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in't. I have supped full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.
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.
If that which he avouches does appear,
There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here.
I 'gin to be aweary of the sun,
And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back.
Hail, king! For so thou art.
Behold where stands
The usurper's cursèd head.
The time is free. I see thee
compassed with thy kingdom's pearl,
That speak my salutation in their minds,
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine.
Hail, King of Scotland!
We shall not spend a large expense of time
Before we reckon with your several loves
And make us even with you…
We will perform in measure, time, and place.
So, thanks to all at once and to each one,
Whom we invite to see us crowned at Scone.
