Lady.
Is Banquo gone from court?

Serv.
Ay, madam, but returns again, to-night.

Lady.
Say to the king I would attend his leisure,
For a few words.

Serv.
Madam, I will. [Exit.

Lady.
Nought's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without consent:
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Enter Macbeth.
How now, my lord, why do you keep alone?
Of sorriest fancies your companions making,
Using those thoughts, which should indeed have dy'd
With them they think on? Things without all remedy,
Should be without regard; what's done is done.

Macb.
We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it—
She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let both worlds disjoint, and all things suffer,

Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams,
That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead,
(Whom we, to gain our place, 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 poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him further!* ^note

Lady.
Come on;
Gentle, my lord, sleek o'er your rugged look:
Be bright, and jovial, 'mong your guests, to-night.

Macb.
O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Thou know'st that Banquo and his Fleance live.

Lady.
But in them nature's copy's not eternal.

Macb.
There's comfort yet, they are assailable;
Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown
His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons
The shard-born beetle with his drowsy hums,
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed of dreadful note.

Lady.
What's to be done?

Macb.
Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,
'Till thou applaud the deed; come, seeling night,&verbar2; ^note
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day,
And with thy bloody and invisible hand,
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond,
Which keeps me pale! light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to th' rooky wood:
Good things of day begin to droop and drowze,
While night's black agents to their prey do rowze.

Thou marvel'st at my words; but hold thee still;
Things, bad begun, make strong themselves by ill.* ^note [Exeunt.

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