Macbeth's Castle.
Hautboys, Torches. Enter divers servants with dishes and service over the Stage. Then Macbeth.
Macb.
If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if th' assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With its surcease, success; that but this blow
Might be the Be-all and the End-all—Here,(13) note
But here, upon this Bank and Shoal of time,
We'd jump the life to come.—But, in these cases,
We still have judgment here, that we but teach
Bloody instructions; which, being taught, return
To plague th' inventor. Even-handed Justice
Returns th' Ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust:
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed: Then, as his Host,
Who should against his murth'rer shut the door,
Not bear the knife my self. Besides, this Duncan
Hath born his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead, like angels, trumpet-tongu'd against
The deep damnation of his taking off:
And Pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heav'ns cherubin hors'd(14) note
-- 406 --
Upon the sightless coursers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in ev'ry eye;
That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting Ambition, which o'er leaps it self,
And falls on th' other—
Enter Lady Macbeth.
How now? what news?
Lady.
He's almost supp'd; why have you left the chamber?
Macb.
Hath he ask'd for me?
Lady.
Know you not, he has?
Macb.
We will proceed no further in this business.
He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought
Golden opinions from all sort of people,
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,
Not cast aside so soon.
Lady.
Was the hope drunk,
Wherein you drest your self? hath it slept since?
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? from this time,
Such I account thy love. Art thou afraid
To be the same in thine own act and valour,
As thou art in desire? wouldst thou have That,
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem?
Letting I dare not wait upon I would,
Like the poor Cat i'th' Adage.
Macb.
Pr'ythee, peace:
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more, is none.
Lady.
What beast was't then,
That made you break this enterprize to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man;
And (to be more than what you were) you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place
Did then co-here, and yet you would make both:
They've made themselves; and that their fitness now
Do's unmake you. I have given suck, and know
-- 407 --
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me—
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluckt my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dasht the brains out, had I but so sworn
As you have done to this.
Macb.
If we should fail?—
Lady.
We fail!
But screw your courage to the sticking place,
And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,
(Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey
Soundly invite him) his two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassel so convince,
That memory (the warder of the brain)
Shall be a fume; and the receipt of reason
A limbeck only; when in swinish sleep
Their drenched natures lie as in a death,
What cannot you and I perform upon
Th' unguarded Duncan? what not put upon
His spungy officers, who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell?
Macb.
Bring forth men-children only!
For thy undaunted metal should compose
Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd,
When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two
Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers,
That they have don't?
Lady.
Who dares receive it other,
As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar,
Upon his death?
Macb.
I'm setled, and bend up
Each corporal agent to this terrible Feat.
Away, and mock the time with fairest show:
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
[Exeunt.
-- 408 --
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
