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Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady M. Yet here 's a spot.

Doct. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say !-One ; Two: Why, then 't is time to do 't:-Hell is murky!

- Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afеard ? What need we tear who knows it, when none can call our power to account ?-Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him!

Doct. Do you mark that?

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; Where is she now ?—What, will these hands ne'er be clean ?No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.

Doct. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known.

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

Doct. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body.

Doct. Well, well, well,
Gent. 'Pray God, it be, sir.

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice : Yet I bave known those which have walked in their sleep who bave died holily in their beds.

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so pale:-1 tell you yet again, Banquo 's buried; he cannot come out on 's grave.

Doct. Even so ?

Lady M. To bed, to bed; there 's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone ; To bed, to bed, to bed.

[Exit LADY MACBETH. Doct. Will she go now to bed ? Gent. Directly.

Doct. Foul whisperings are abroad : Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles : Infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician. God, God, forgive us all! Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her :-So, good night: My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight : I think, but dare not speak. Gent.

Good night, good doctor.

[Exeunt. SCENE II.— The Country near Dunsivane. Enter, with drum and colours, MENTETH, CATHNESS,

Angus, Lenox, and Soldiers. Ment. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them: for their dear causes Would, to the bleeding and the grim alarm, Excite the mortified man.b Ang.

Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.

Cath. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother ?

Len. For certain, sir, he is not : I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward's son,

a Mated-amated-dismayed.

Mortified man.-We think, with Warburton, that the poet here means a hermit or religions ascetic,-one indifferent to the concerns of the world, but who would be excited to fight by such of revenge as Macduff comes with.

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• causes

And many unrough youths, that even now
Protest their first of manhood.
Ment.

What does the tyrant?
Cath. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies :
Some

say he 's mad; others, that lesser hate him,
Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain,
He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause
Within the belt of rule.
Ang.

Now does he feel
His secret murthers sticking on his hands;
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
Those he commands move only in command,
Nothing in love : now does he feel his title
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a clwarfish thief.
Ment.

Who then shall blame
His pester'd senses to recoil, and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself, for being there?
Cath.

Well, march we on,
To give obedience where 't is truly ow'd :
Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal;
And with him pour we, in our country's purge,
Each drop of us.
Len.

Or so much as it needs,
To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds.
Make we our march towards Birnam.

[Exeunt, marching.

SCENE III.-Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants. Macb. Bring me no more reports ; let them fly all; Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, I cannot taint with fear. What 's the boy Malcolm ? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus :

“ Fear not, Macbeth ; no man that 's born of woman Shall e'er have power upon thee.” Then fly, false

thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures :
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sagg with doubt, nor shake with fear.

Enter a Servant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon;
Where gott'st thou that goose

look ? Serv. There is ten thousand Macb.

Geese, villain? Serv.

Soldiers, sir.
Macb. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch ?
Death of thy soul ! those linen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?

Serv. The English force, so please you.
Macb. Take thy face hence.—Seyton !-I am sick

at heart,
When I behold-Seyton, I say !--This push
Will cheer me ever, or dis-seat me now.
I have liv'd long enough : my way of life b
Is fallen 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.
Seyton !

Enter SEYTON.
Sey. What 's your gracious pleasure ?
Macb.

What news more ? a Sagg-sink down. b Gifford says,

way of life is neither more nor less than a simple periphrasis for life.

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Sey. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
Macb. I 'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be

hack'd. Give me my armour. Sey.

'T is not needed yet. Macb. I 'll put it on. Send out more horses, skira the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.–Give me mine armour :How does your patient, doctor? Doct.

Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
Macb.

Cure her of that:
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd :
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff d bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart ?
Doct.

Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.

Macb. Throw physic to the dogs, I 'll none of it. Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff :Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the thanes fly from me:Come, sir, despatch :-If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.--Pull 't off, I say.-What rhubarb, senna, b or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence ?-Hearest thou of

them? Doct. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something.

A Skir-scur-scour.

" Senna.-We are not sure about this word. The original reads cyme.

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