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

There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.

A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursèd thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!

Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time.

So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchised and allegiance clear, I shall be counseled.

I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw.

Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s off’rings, and withered murder, Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.

Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabouts, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.

Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

Hark!—Peace! It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good-night.

The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores.

If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt.

No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.

I hear a knocking At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed. How easy is it, then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.

Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell gate, he should have old turning the key.

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.

Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter.

Faith sir, we were carousing till the second cock, and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.

Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes.

That it did, sir, i’ th’ 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.

The night has been unruly. Where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down and, as they say, Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death, And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confused events New hatched to th’ woeful time.

O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' th' building!

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' th' building!

What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!

Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessèd time; for from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead.

What is amiss?

Who can be wise, amazed, temp’rate, and furious, Loyal, and neutral, in a moment? No man. Th’ expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser, reason.

Who can be wise, amazed, temp’rate, and furious, Loyal, and neutral, in a moment? No man. Th’ 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 colors of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breeched with gore.

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.

Fears and scruples shake us. In the great hand of God I stand, and thence Against the undivulged pretence I fight Of treasonous malice.

Let's not consort with them. To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.

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.

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.

Is 't night's predominance, or the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it?

They were suborned. Malcolm and Donalbain, the king's two sons, Are stol'n away and fled, which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed.

Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up Thine own lives' means!

He is already named, and gone to Scone To be invested.

God's benison go with you and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!