"The Tragedy of Macbeth" by William Shakespeare, Act IV

Round about the cauldron go; In the poisoned entrails throw.

I conjure you by that which you profess (Howe'er you come to know it), answer me.

Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame.

Come high or low; Thyself and office deftly show.

Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth.

Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are.

Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursèd in the calendar!—

Time, thou anticipat’st my dread exploits. The flighty purpose never is o’ertook Unless the deed go with it.

Time, thou anticipat’st my dread exploits. The flighty purpose never is o’ertook Unless the deed go with it.

Poor prattler, how thou talk'st!

I doubt some danger does approach you nearly. If you will take a homely man’s advice, Be not found here. Hence with your little ones!

To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer.

But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly.

What I believe, I’ll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will.

That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke. It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds.

I think withal There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here from gracious England have I offer Of goodly thousands.

It is myself I mean, in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be opened, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compared With my confineless harms.

Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damned In evils to top Macbeth.

But there’s no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness.

Your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids could not fill up The cistern of my lust, and my desire All continent impediments would o’erbear That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth Than such an one to reign.

Your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids could not fill up The cistern of my lust, and my desire All continent impediments would o’erbear That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth Than such an one to reign.

Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall of many kings.

Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall of many kings.

But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours. You may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty And yet seem cold—the time you may so hoodwink.

With this there grows In my most ill-composed affection such A stanchless avarice that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands, Desire his jewels, and this other's house; And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more, that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.

With this there grows In my most ill-composed affection such A stanchless avarice that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands, Desire his jewels, and this other's house; And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more, that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.

Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.

But God above Deal between thee and me, for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself For strangers to my nature.

But God above Deal between thee and me, for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself For strangers to my nature.

I am yet Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, Scarcely have coveted what was mine own, At no time broke my faith, would not betray The devil to his fellow, and delight No less in truth than life.

I am yet Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, Scarcely have coveted what was mine own, At no time broke my faith, would not betray The devil to his fellow, and delight No less in truth than life.

Ay, sir. There are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure. Their malady convinces The great assay of art, but at his touch (Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand) They presently amend.

Ay, sir. There are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure. Their malady convinces The great assay of art, but at his touch (Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand) They presently amend.

How he solicits heaven Himself best knows, but strangely visited people All swoll’n and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures, Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers; and, ’tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction.

How he solicits heaven Himself best knows, but strangely visited people All swoll’n and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures, Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers; and, ’tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction.

It cannot Be called our mother, but our grave, where nothing But who knows nothing is once seen to smile; Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rent the air Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy.

Now is the time of help. Your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight To doff their dire distresses.

Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now.

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes And braggart with my tongue!