 The Tragedy of Macbeth by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dramatis, Persone. Duncan, King of Scotland. Read by Joshua Christensen. Malcolm, Son of Duncan. Read by MB. Donald Bain, Son of Duncan. Read by Alice Christoff. Macbeth, General of the King's Army. Played by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Banquo, General of the King's Army. Read by Simon Lawar. Macduff, Nobleman of Scotland. Read by John Leader Bloomington, Illinois. Lennox, Nobleman of Scotland. Read by Adnan Mirza, Pakistan. Ross, Nobleman of Scotland. Played by Rosalind Wills. Menteth, Nobleman of Scotland. Read by David Lawrence, Brampton, Ontario. Angus, Nobleman of Scotland. Read by Ross Clement. Keith Ness, Nobleman of Scotland. Read by David Nicolle. Fliance, The Son of Banquo. Read by Aaron Elliott, St. Louis, Missouri. Seward, Earl of Northumberland. Read by Brian Edwards. Young Seward, Seward's son. Read by Lary Ann Walden. Satan, an officer attending upon Macbeth. Read by Paul Williams. Son of Macduff. Read by David Lawrence, Brampton, Ontario. Lady Macbeth. Read by Elizabeth Clatt. Lady Macduff. Read by Elsie. Hecatee. Read by Ruth Golding. First Witch. Recorded by Jennifer Stearns. Conquered New Hampshire. Second Witch. Read by Kristen Hughes. Third Witch. Read by Charlene V. Smith. Doctor. Read by Eric M. Johnson. Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. Read by Lary Ann Walden. The Attendant and the Servant. Read by Anna Simon. Lords. Read by David Nicolle. An Old Man. Read by Paul Williams. The Porter. Read by David Leeson. First Apparition. Read by David Lawrence, Brampton, Ontario. Second Apparition. Read by Russ Clement. Third Apparition. Read by Finn Jameson. First Murderer. Have it. Second Murderer. Read by Anna Roberts. Third Murderer. Read by Russ Clement. Messenger. By Iswa. Belgium. The Soldier and the Sgt. Read by David Nicolle. End of Dramatis Personi. Act 1 of The Tragedy of Macbeth. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Tragedy of Macbeth by William Shakespeare. Act 1, Scene 1. A Desert Place. Thunder and Lightning. Enter Three Witches. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurly-burly's done. When the battle's lost and won. That will be ere the set of sun. Where are the place? Upon the heath. There to meet with Macbeth. I come, Gromalken. Paddock calls. Anon. There is foul and foul is fair. Hover through the fog and filthy air. Exeant. Act 1, Scene 2. A Camp Near Forest. Alarm within. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donald Bain, Lennox, with attendance. Meeting of leading Sergeant. What bloody man is that? He can report, as seemeth by his plight, of the revolt the newest state. This is the Sergeant who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought against my captivity. Hail, brave friend! Say to the King the knowledge of the broil as thou didst leave it. Doubtful it stood. As two spent swimmers that do cling together and choke their art. The merciless MacDonald, worthy to be a rebel, thought of that the multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him. From the western aisles of kerns and gallow-glasses is supplied. And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, showed like a rebel's whore. But, all's too weak, for brave Macbeth, well he deserves that name. Distaining fortune, with his brandished steel, which smoked with bloody execution, like Valar's Minion carved out his pattage till he faced the slave. Which ne'er shook hands, nor bade fell out to him, till he unseen him from the nave to the chaps, and fixed his head upon our battlements. O valiant cousin, worthy gentleman! As whence the sun gins his reflection, shipwrecking storms and direthful thunders break, so from that spring whence comfort seemed to come, discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, Mark, no sooner justice had with Valar armed compelled these skipping kerns to trust their heels, but the Norway and Lord, surveying vantage, with furbished arms and new supplies of men, began a fresh assault. Dismayed not this, our captains, Macbeth and Benchwell. Yes, as sparrows, eagles, or the hare, the lion, have I so sooth. I must report, they were as cannons overcharged with double cracks, so they doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe. Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, or memorise another Golgotha, I cannot tell. But I am faint. My gashes cry for help. So will thy words become thee as thy wounds. They smack of honour both. Go, get him surgeons. Exit, Sergeant, attended. Who comes here? Enter Ross. The worthy Thane of Ross! What I hast, looks through his eyes. So should he look, that seems to speak things strange. God save the King! Whence came is thou worthy Thane? From Fife, Great King, where the Norwegian banners flout the sky and fan our people cold, Norway himself, with terrible numbers assisted by that most disloyal traitor, the Thane of Cordor, began a dismal conflict, till that Bologna's bridegroom, lapped in proof, confronted him with self-comparisons, point against point rebellious arm against arm, curving his lavish spirit, and to conclude, the victory fell on us. Great happiness! That now, Sfeno, the Norway's king, craves composition, nor would we dain him burial of his men till he disbursed at St. Colm's inch ten thousand dollars to our general use. No more that Thane of Cordor shall deceive our bosom interest. Go, pronounce his present death, and with his former title, greet Macbeth. I'll see it done. When he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. Excellent. Act one, scene three, a heath near forest. Thunder, enter the three witches. Where hast thou been, sister? Killing swine. Sister, where thou? A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, and munched, and munched, and munched. Give me, quoth I, a roint thee which, the rump-fed onion cries. Her husband's two Aleppo gone, master of the tiger. In a sieve I'll thither sail, and like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. I'll give thee a wind. Thou art kind. And die another. I myself have all the other, and the very ports they blow. All the quarters that they know. I, the shipman's card, I will drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day, hang upon his penthouse lid. He shall live a man forbid, where he's seven nights nine times nine, as he dwindle, peak, and pine. Though his bark cannot be lost, yet it shall be tempest-tossed. Look what I have. Show me, show me. Here I have a pilot's thumb. Wrecked his homeward, he did come. Drum within. A drum, a drum, Macbeth doth come. The weird sisters hand to hand, posters of the sea and land, Thus to go about, about, thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, and thrice again to make up nine. Peace! The charms round up. Enter Macbeth and Banquo. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. How far is it called to fours? What are these, so withered and so wild in their attire, that look not like the inhabitants of the earth, and yet are aren't? Live you, or are you ought that man may question? You seem to understand me by each at once, her chappy finger laying upon her skinny lips. You should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so. Speak, if you can, what are you? All hail Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glemis. All hail Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cordor. All hail Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter. Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear things that do sound so fair? In the name of truth, are ye fantastical, or that indeed which outwardly ye show? My noble partner, you greet with present grace and great prediction of noble having and of royal hope, that he seems rapt with all. To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow, which will not, speak them to me, who neither beg nor fear your favours nor your hate. Hail, hail, hail, lesser than Macbeth and greater. Not so happy, yet much happier. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none, to all hail Macbeth and Banquo. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinal's death I know I am Thane of Glamis. But how of Cordor? The Thane of Cordor lives, prosperous gentleman, and to be king stands not within the prospect of belief no more than to be Cordor. Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence? Or why upon this blasted heath you stop our way with such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you. Witches vanish. The earth hath bubbles as the water has, and these are of them. Whither are they vanished? Into the air, and what seemed corporal melted as breath into the wind, would they had stayed. Were such things here as we do speak about, or have we eaten on the insane root that takes reason prisoner? Your children shall be kings. You shall be king. And Thane of Cordor too. Went it not so? To the self-same tune in words. Who's here? Enter Ross and Angus. The king hath happily received Macbeth, the news of thy success. And when he reads thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, his wonders and his praises do contend which should be thine or his. Silenced with that, in viewing o'er the rest of the self-same day, he finds thee in the stout norwayan ranks, nothing afield of what thyself didst make strange imagers of death. As thick as hail came post with post, and every one did bear thy praises in his kingdom's great defence and poured them down before him. We are sent to give thee from our royal master thanks, only to herald thee into his sight, not pay thee. And for an earnest of a greater honour, he bade me from him call thee Thane of Cordor, in which addition hail most worthy Thane, for it is thine. What? Can the devil speak true? The Thane of Cordor lives. Why do you dress me in borrowed robes? Who was the Thane lives yet? But under heavy judgment bears that life, which he deserves to lose, whether he was combined with those of Norway, or did lie in the rebel with hidden help and vantage, or that with both, he laboured in his country's wreck, I know not, but Treason's capital, confessed and proved, have overthrown him. Aside. Glamas and Thane of Cordor, the greatest is behind. To Ross and Angus. Thanks for your pains. To Banquo. Do you not hope your children shall be kings, when those that gave the Thane of Cordor to me promise no less to them? That trusted home might yet and kindle you unto the crown, besides the Thane of Cordor. But is strange, and often times to win us to a harm the instruments of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles, to betray us in deepest consequence. Cousins, a word I pray you. Aside. Two truths are told as happy prologues to the swelling act of the imperial theme. I thank you, gentlemen. Aside. This supernatural soliciting cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill, why hath it given me earnest of success commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cordor. If good. Why do I yield to that suggestion whose horrid image doth unfix my hair and make my seated heart knock at my ribs against the use of nature? Present fears are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, shakes so my single state of man that function is smothered in surmise, and nothing is but what is not. Look how our partner's wrapped. Aside. If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me without my stir? New horrors come upon him like our strange garments cleave not to their mould but with the aid of use. Aside. Come what come may. Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. Give me your favour. My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten. Kind, gentlemen, your pains are registered where every day I turn the leaf to read them. Let us toward the king. Think upon what hath chanced. But at more time, the interim having waited, let us speak our free hearts each to other. Very gladly. Till then, enough. Come, friends. Exceant. Act I, scene four. Forus, the palace. Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donald Bain, Lennox, and Attendance. Is execution done on Caldor? Are not those in commission yet returned? They are not yet come back. But I have spoke with one that saw him die, who did report that very frankly he confessed his treasons, implored your highness pardon and set forth a deep repentance. Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it. He died as one that had been studied in his death to throw away the dearest thing he owed as to a careless trifle. There is no art to find the mind's construction in the face. He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust. Enter Macbeth, Vanquell, Ross, and Angus. O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now is heavy on me. Thou art so far before that swiftest wing of recompense is slow to overtake thee. Would thou hath less deserved? To the proportion both of thanks and payment might have been mine. Only I have left to say, more is thy due than more than all can pay. The service and the loyalty I owe in doing it pays itself. Your highness' part is to receive our duties, and our duties are to your throne and state children and servants, which do but what they should by doing everything safe toward your love and honor. Welcome hither! I have begun to plant thee and will labor to make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo, thou hast no less deserved, nor must be no no less to have done so. Let me enfold thee and hold thee to my heart. There if I grow the harvest is your own. My plenteous joys wanton in fullness seek to hide themselves in drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes, and you whose places are the nearest, know, we will establish our estate upon our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter the Prince of Cumberland, which honor must not unaccompanied invest him only, but signs of nobleness, like star shall shine on all the servers, from hence to Inverness, and bind us further to you. The rest is labor, which is not used for you. I'll be myself the harbinger. I make joyful the hearing of my wife with your approach. So humbly take my leave. My worthy codor. A side. The Prince of Cumberland. That is a step on which I must fall down, or else or leap, for in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires. Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand. Yet let that be which the eye fears when it is done, to see. Exit. True worthy banquet. He is full so valiant, and in his commendations I am fed. It is a banquet to me. Let's after him, whose care is gone before to bid us welcome. It is a peerless kinsmen. Flourish. Exit. See it orient. Act one, scene five. Inverness. Macbeth's castle. Enter Lady Macbeth. Reading a letter. They met me in the day of success. And I have learned by the perfectest report, they have mourned them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air into which they vanished. There went my wits. As I stood rapt in the wonder of it came missives from the king, who all hailed me thane of Caudor, by which title before these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming-on of time with— Hail, king, that shalt be! This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness has promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell. Glams thou art, and Caudor, and shalt be what thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature. It is too full of the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great, art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it. But thou wouldst highly, that wouldst thou holily, wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou'dst have, great glams, that which cries, thus thou must do if thou have it, and that which rather thou dost fear to do, than wish should be undone. High thee hither, that I may pour my spirits in thine ear, and chastise with the valor of my tongue, all that impedes thee from the golden round, which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem to have thee crowned with all. Enter a messenger. What is your tidings? The king comes here to-night. Thou art mad to say it. Is not thy master with him? Who worked so would have informed for preparation? So please you, it is true. Our thing is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more than would make up his message. Give him tending. He brings great news. Exit messenger. The raven himself is hoarse, that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Come, you spirits, that tend on mortal thoughts, un-sex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe, top full of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood. Stop up the access and passage to remorse, that no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between the effect and it. Come to my woman's breasts and take my milk, for gall you murdering ministers, wherever in your sightless substances you wait on nature's mischief. Come, thick night, and pawl thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife see not the wound it makes, nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark to cry, Hold, hold! Enter Macbeth. Great gloms! Worthy corridor! Greater than both by the all hail hereafter. Thy letters have transported me beyond this ignorant present, and I feel now the future in the instant. My dearest love, Duncan comes here to-night. And when goes hence? Tomorrow, as he purposes. Oh, never shall sun that morrow see. Your face, my fain, is as a book where man may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue. Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it. He that's coming must be provided for, and you shall put this night's great business into my dispatch, which shall to all our nights and days to come give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. We will speak further. Only look up clear. To alter favour ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me. Act one, scene six, before Macbeth's castle. Oh, boys and torches. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donald Bain, Banquo, Lennox, McDuff, Ross, Angus, and attendance. This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses. This guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet, does approve by his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath smells wooingly here. No jutty, freeze-buttress, nor coin of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendant bed in procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed the air is delicate. Enter Lady Macbeth. See, see our honoured hostess! The love that follows us some time is our trouble, which still we think as love. Herein I teach you how you shall bid God ill thus for your pains, and think us for your trouble. All our service, in every point, twice done, and then done double, were poor and single business to contend against those honours deep and broad, wherewith your majesty loads our house. For those of old and the late dignities heaped up to them, we rest your hermets. Where is the Thane of Cador? We coursed him at the heels, and had a purpose to be his purveyor, but he rides well, and his great love sharp as his spur hath hold him to his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, we are your guest tonight. Your servants ever have theirs, themselves and what is theirs, in compt, to make their audit to Your Highness's pleasure, still to return your own. Give me your hand. Conduct me to my host. We love him highly, and shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. Exeant! Act I, Scene VII, Macbeth's Castle. O boys and torches, enter a sewer and diver's servants with dishes and service, and pass over the stage. Then enter, Macbeth. If it were done when tis done, then true well it were done quickly. If the assassination could travel up the consequence, and catch with his surcease success, that but this blow might be the be-all and the end-all here. But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, we'll 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 the inventor. This even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poisoned 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 murderer shut the door, not bear the knife myself. This Duncan hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been so clear in his great office, that his virtues will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against the deep damnation of his taking off. And pity, like a naked newborn babe, striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, hoarse upon the sightless couriers of the air, shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, that tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself and falls on the other. Enter, Lady Macbeth. How now? What news? He has almost supp'd. Why have you left the chamber? Hath he asked for me? No you not, he has. We will proceed no further in this business. He hath honoured me of late, and I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not cast aside so soon. Was the hope drunk wherein you dressed yourself? 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. Aren't thou a fear to be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire? What's thou have that which thou esteems the ornament of life, and live a coward in thine own esteem, letting I dare not wait upon I would, like the poor cat of the adage? Pretty peace, I dare do all that may become a man who dares do more is none. What beast was then that made you break this enterprise 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 adhere, and yet you would make both. They have made themselves, and that their fitness now doth un-make you. I have given succ, and know how tender it is to love the babe that milks me. I would, while it was smiling in my face, have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums and dashed the brains out, and I so sworn as you have done to this. If we should fail? But screw your courage to the sticking place, and will not fail? When Duncan is asleep, where to the rather shall his day's hard journey soundly invite him, his two chamberlands will eye with wine and wassal so convinced that memory, the water of the brain shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason a limbic only, when in swinish sleep their drenched natures lie as in a death. What cannot you and I perform upon the unguarded Duncan? What not put upon his spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt of our great quell? Bring forth men children only, for thy undaunted meadow should compose nothing but males. Will it not be received, when we have marked with blood the sleepy two of his own chamber and used their very daggers that they have done it? Who dares receive it other, as we shall make our griefs and clamor roar upon his death? I am settled, and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away and mock the time with ferris show, false face must hide, but the false heart doth know. The Tragedy of Macbeth by William Shakespeare Act II, Scene I Court of Macbeth's Castle Enter Banquo and Fleance bearing a torch before him. How goes the night, boy? The moon is down, I have not heard the clock. And she goes down at twelve? I take it tis later, sir. Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heaven. Their candles are all out. Take thee that, too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, and yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature gives way to in repose. Enter Macbeth and a servant with a torch. Give me my sword. Who's there? A friend. What, sir? Not yet at rest? The king's a bed. He hath been in unusual pleasure and sent forth great largesse to your offices. This diamond he greets your wife with all, by the name of Most Kind Hostess, and shut up in measureless content. Being unprepared, our will became the servant to defect. What else should free have wrought? All's well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters. To you they have showed some truth. I think not of them. When we can entreat an hour to serve, we would spend it in some words upon that business, if you would grant the time. At your kindest leisure. If you shall cleave to my consent when tis, it shall make honour for you. So I lose none in seeking to augment it, but still keep my bosom franchised and allegiance clear. I shall be counseled. Good repose the while. Thanks, sir. The like to you. Exeant Banquo and Fleance. Go bid thy mistress when my drink is ready, she strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. Exit, servant. Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which now I draw. Thou marshallest me the way that I was going, and such an instrument I was to use. My eyes are made the fools of the other senses, or else worth all the rest? I see thee still, and on thy blade and dutching gouts of blood, which was not so before? There's no such thing. It is the bloody business which informs thus to mine eyes. Now or the one-half world, nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse the curtain's sleep, witchcraft celebrates pale hecket's offerings, and withered murder, alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf, whose howls 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 the very stones preyt of my whereabout, and take the present horror from the time, which now suits with it. While I threat, he lives, words to the heat of deeds too cold-breath gives. A bell rings. I go, and it is done, the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven, or to hell. Exit. Act two, scene two, the same. Enter Lady Macbeth. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold, what hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellamon which gives the stirrants good night. He is about it. The doors are open, and the surfited grooms do mock their charge with snores. I have drugged their posits. That death and nature do contend about them whether they live or die. Within. Who's there? What ho? Alark! I am afraid they have awaked, and is not done. The attempt and not the deed confounds us. Hark! I lay their daggers ready. He could not miss them. Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done it. Enter Macbeth. My husband. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise? I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? When? Now. As I descended? I. Hark! Who lies in the second chamber? Donald Bain. This is a sorry sight. Looking on his hands. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cried murder. That they did wake each other. I stood and heard them. But they did say their prayers and addressed them again to sleep. There are two lodged together. One cried, God bless us, and amen the other. As they had seen me with these hangman's hands, listening their fear, I could not say amen when they did say, God bless us. Consider it not so deeply. But wherefore could I not pronounce amen? I had most need of blessing, and amen stuck in my throat. These deeds must not be thought after these ways, so it will make us mad. When we thought I heard a voice cry, sleep no more, make Bath does murder sleep. The innocent sleep. Sleep that knits up the rabbled sleeve of care, the death of each day's life, sore labor's Bath, balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast. What do you mean? Still it cried sleep no more to all the house. Those hath murdered sleep, and therefore caught her shall sleep no more. MacBeth shall sleep no more. Who was it that thus cried? Why worthy thing, you do unbend your noble strength to think so brain-sickly of things. Go get some water and wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there. Go, carry them, and smear the sleepy grooms with blood. I'll go no more. I'm afraid to think what I have done. Look on it again, I dare not. In firm of purpose. Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead are as but pictures. It is the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms with all, for it must seem their guilt. Exit. Knocking within. Whence is that knocking? How is it with me when every noise appalls me? What hands are here? Ha! They pluck out mine eyes. Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seizing incarnadine making the green one red. Re-enter, Lady MacBeth. My hands are of your color. But I shame to wear a heart so white. Knocking within. 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 had left you unattended. Knocking within. Hark! More knocking. Get on your nightgown. The occasion call us and show us to be watchers. Be not lost so poorly in your thoughts. To know my deed, to her best not know myself. Knocking within. Wake Duncan with thy knocking. I would thou cootst. Exit. Act two, scene three, the same. Knocking within. Enter a porter. Knocking indeed. If a man were porter of elk-gite, he should have old turn in the key. Knocking within. Knock, knock, knock. Who's there in the name of Beelzebub? He is a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty. Come in time. I have napkins to know about you. Here you'll sweat for it. Knocking within. Knock, knock. Who's there in the other devil's name? Faith is 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. Oh, come in, equivocator. Knocking within. Knock, knock, knock. Who's there? Faith is an English tailor, come hither, for stealing out of the French owes. Come in, tailor. Here you may roast your goose. Knocking within. Knock, knock. Never a quiet. What are you? But this place is too cold for El. I'll devil-porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some of all professions that go the prim rose-weight of the everlasting bonfire. Knocking within. Anon, anon, I pray you remember the porter. Opens the gate. Enter McDuff and Lennox. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed that you do lie so late? Faith, sir, we work arouse until the second cock, and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. What three things does drink especially provoke? Mary, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Letcherie, sir, it provokes and unprovokes. It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with letcherie. It makes him and it marrs him. It sets him on and it takes him off. It persuades him and disheartens him, makes him stand too, and not stand too. In conclusion equivocates him in asleep, and giving him the lie leaves him. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. That it did, sir. It earned a 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 sometimes, yet I made a shift to cast him. Is thy master stirring? Enter Macbeth. Our knocking has awaked him. Here he comes. Good morrow, noble sir. Good morrow, both. Is the king stirring, worthy Thane? Not yet. He did command me to call timely on him. I have almost slipped the hour. I'll bring you to him. I know this is a joyful trouble to you, but yet it is one. The labour we delight in, physics pain. This is the door. I'll make so bold to call for it is my limited service. Exit. Goes the king hence today. He does. He did a point so. The night has been unruly where we lay. Our chimneys were blown down. And as they say, lamenting head-eye, the air, strange screams of death, and prophesying with accent terrible, of dire compunction and confused events, new haste to the awful time. The obscure bird clamored the live-long night. Some say the earth was fabulous, and did shake. It was a rough night. My young remembrance cannot parallel a parallel to it. Re-enter MacDuff. Oh, horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee. What's the matter? Confusion now hath made his masterpiece. Most sacrilegious murder hath broke hope the lord's anointed temple, and stole fence the life of the building. What is it you say? The life? Mean you his majesty. Watch the chamber, and destroy your sight with a new gorgon. Do not bid me speak. See, and then speak yourselves. Exit. Macbeth and Lennox. Awake! Awake! Ring the alarm bell. Murdered and treason. Benqual and Donald Bain. Malcolm, awake! Shake off this drowsy sleep, death's care of it, and look on death itself. Up, up, and see the great doom's image. Malcolm, Benqual, as from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites to countenance this horror. Ring the bell. Bell rings. Enter Lady Macbeth. What's the business that such a hideous trumpet calls to parley the sleepers of the house? Speak, speak! Oh, gentle lady, it is not for you to hear what I can speak. The repetition in a woman's ear would murder as it fell. Enter Benqual. Oh, Benqual! Benqual! A royal master's murdered! Whoa! Alas! What in our house? Too cruel anywhere. Dear Duff, I pretty contradict thyself and say it is not so. Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox with Ross. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessed time. For from this instant there's nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys. Renowning grace is dead. The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lease is left this vault to brag of. Enter Malcolm and Donald Bain. What is a miss? You are, and do not know it. The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood is stopped. The very source of it is stopped. Your royal father's murdered. Oh! By whom? Those of his chamber, as it seemed, had done it. Their hands and faces were enbashed with blood, so were their daggers which unviped be found upon their pillows. They stared and were distracted. No man's life was to be trusted with them. Oh, yet I do repent me of my fury that I did kill them. Wherefore did you sow? Who can be wise, amaze, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral in a moment? No man. The expedition 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 colours of their trade, their daggers unmanorly breached with gore. Who could refrain that had a heart to love, and in that heart courage to make love known? Help me hence, oh! Look to the lady. Aside to Donald Bain. Why do we hold our tongues that most may claim this argument for ours? Aside to Malcolm. What should be spoken here, where our fate hid in an auger hole may Russian seizes? Let's away, our tears are knotted brood. Aside to Donald Bain. Nor our strong sorrow upon the foot of motion. Look to the lady. Lady Macbeth is carried out. And when we have our naked frailties hid that suffer an 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 undevolged pretence, I fight if treasonous malice. And so do I. So all. Let's briefly put on manly readiness and meet in the hall together. Well contented. Excellent, all but Malcolm and Donald Bain. What will you do? Let's not consort with them. To show an unfelt sorrow is an office which the false man does easy. I'll to England. To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune shall keep us both the safer, where we are there is daggers in men's smiles. The nearer in blood, the nearer bloody. This murderous shaft that shot hath not yet lighted, and our safest way is to avoid the aim. 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. Excellent. Act II, Scene IV. Outside Macbeth's Castle. Enter Ross and an old man. Three score and ten, I can remember well. Within the volume of which time I have seen, ours dreadful and things strange. But this sore night hath trifled former knowings. Ah, good Father, thou seest the heavens as troubled with man's act threaten his bloody stage. By the clock to his day and yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp. It's night's predominance or the day's shame that darkness doth the face of earth entomb when living light should kiss it. It is unnatural. Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last a falcon towering in her pride of place was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed. And Duncan's horses, a thing most strange and certain, beauteous and swift, the minions of their race turned wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out contending against obedience as they would make war with mankind. This said, they eat each other. They did so to the amazement of mine eyes that looked upont. Here comes the good McDuff. Enter McDuff. How goes the world, sir, now? Why, see you not? It's known who did this more than bloody deed. Those that Macbeth slain. Alas the day, what good could they pretend? They were suborned. Malcolm and Donald Bain, the king's two sons, are stolen away and fled, which puts upon them suspicion of the deed. Gains nature still, thriftless ambition that will raven up thine own life's means, and his most like the sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. He is already named and gone to Skone to be invested. Where is Duncan's body? Carried to Comacill, the sacred storehouse of his predecessors, and guardian of their bones. Will you to Skone? No, cousin, I'll to Fife. Well, I will dither. Well, may you see things well done there. Hadoo, lest our old robes sit easier than our new. Farewell, father. God's bannison go with ye, and with those that would make good of bad, and friends of foes. Excellent. End of Act II of the Tragedy of Macbeth by William Shakespeare. Act III of the Tragedy of Macbeth by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act III, Scene I. Forrest, the Palace. Enter Banquo. Thou hast it now. King, Cordo, Glamis, all as the weird women promised. And I fear thou played most foully fought. Yet it was said it should not stand in thy posterity, but that myself should be the root and father of many kings. If there come truth from them, as upon thee Macbeth their speeches shine, why, by the verities on thee made good, may they not be my oracles as well and set me up in hope. But hush, no more. Senate sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen, Lennox Ross, Lord's Ladies in attendance. Here's our Chief Guest. If he had been forgotten, it had been as a gap in our great feast, and all thing unbecoming. Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir, and I'll request your presence. Let your Highness command upon me to the which my duties are with the most indissoluble tie for ever knit. Ride you this afternoon. Aye, my good Lord. We should have else desired your good advice, which still hath been both grave and prosperous in this day's council, but we'll take to-morrow. Is it far you ride? Far, my Lord, as we'll fill up the time, twist this and supper. Go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, for a dark hour or twain. Fail not our feast. My Lord, I will not. We here, our bloody cousins, are bestowed in England and in Ireland, not confessing their cruel parasite, filling their hearers with strange invention. But of that to-morrow, when there with all we shall have cause of state craving us jointly. Hie you to horse, adieu, till you return at night. Goes fleance with you. Aye, my good Lord, our time does call upon us. I wish your horses swift and sure afoot, and so I do commend you to their backs, farewell. Exit Banquo. Let every man be master of his time till seven at night. To make society the sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself till supper time alone. While then, God be with you. Exit Albert Macbeth and an attendant. Serah, a word with you. Attend those men our pleasure. They are, my Lord, without the palace gate. Bring them before us. Exit attendant. To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo stick deep, and in his royalty of nature reigns that which would be feared. Tis much he dares, and to that dauntless temper of his mind he hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor to act in safety. There is none but he whose being I do fear, and under him my genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters when first they put the name of King upon me, and bade them speak to him. Then prophet like they hailed him farther to a line of kings. Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown, and put a barren scepter in my grape. Thence to be wrenched from an unlinial hand, no son of mine succeeding. If it be so, for Banquo's issue have I filed my mind, for them the gracious Duncan hath I murdered, but rankers in the vessel of my peace only for them, and mine eternal jewel given to the common enemy of man to make them kings the seed of Banquo kings. Rather than so come fate into our list, and champion me to the utterance. Who's there? Re-enter attendant with two murderers. Now go to the door and stay there till we call. Exit attendant. Was it not yesterday we spoke together? It was, so please, Your Highness. Well, then now, have you considered of my speeches? Know that it was he in the times past which held you so under fortune, which you thought had been our innocent self. This I made good to you on our last conference, past in probation with you. How you were born in hand, how crossed the instruments, who wrought with them, and all things else that might, to half a soul and to a notion crazed, say, thus did Banquo. You made it known to us? I did so, and went further, which is now our point of second meeting. Do you find your patience so predominant in your nature that you can let this go? Are you so costful to pray for this good man and for his issue, whose heavy hand hath bowed you to the grave and beggared yours for ever? We are men, my liege. I in the catalog you go for men, as hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, currs, shofs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are klept all by the name of dogs. The valued file distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, the housekeeper, the hunter, every one according to the gift which bounteous nature hath in him closed, whereby he does receive particular addition from the bill that writes them all alike. And so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, not in the worst rank of manhood, say it, and I will put that business in your bosoms whose execution takes your enemy off, grapples you to the heart and love of us who wear our health but sickly in his life, which in his death were perfect. I am one, my liege, whom the vile blows and buffets of the world have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. And I another, so weary with disasters, tugged with fortune, that I would set my life on any chance to mend it or be rid on it. Both of you know bankwell was your enemy. True, my lord. So is he mine, and in such bloody distance that every minute of his being thrust against my nearest of life, and though I could with bare-faced power sweep him from my sight and bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, for certain friends that are both his and mine, whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall who I myself struck down, and thence it is that I to your assistance do make love, masking the business from the common eye for sundry weighty reasons. We shall, my lord, perform what you command us. Though our lives Your spirit shined through you. Within this hour at most I will advise you where to plant yourselves. Acquaint you with the perfect spy of the time, the moment on it, for it must be done tonight and something from the palace. Always thought that I require a clearness and with him. To leave no rubs nor botches in the work fleance's son that keeps him company, whose absence is no less material to me than is his father's, must embrace the fate of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart. I'll come to you anon. We are resolved, my lord. I'll call upon you straight. Abide within. Acquaint murderers. It is concluded. Banquo thy soul's flight, if it find heaven, must find it out to-night. Exit. Act three, scene two, the palace. Enter Lady Macbeth and a servant. Is Banquo gone from court? Aye, madam, but returns again to-night. Say to the king I would attend his leisure for a few words. Madam, I will. Exit. Noth's had. All spent. Where our desire is got without content. Tis safer to be that which we destroy, than by destruction dwell and 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 died with them they think on? Things without all remedy should be without regard. What's done is done. We have scotched the snake, not killed it. She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, both the world 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 peace 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. Come on, gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks. Be bright and jovial among your guests tonight. So shall I love, and so I pray be you. Let your remembrance apply to Banquo. Present him eminence both with eye and tongue. Unsafe the while, that we must love our honours in these flattering streams and make our faces, wizards to our hearts, disguising what they are. You must leave this! O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife, thou knowest that Banquo and his fleance lives. But in them nature's copies not a turn. There's comfort yet, they are assailable. Then be thou jockened, ere the bat hath flown his coistered flight, ere to black hecket summons the shard-born beetle with his drowsy hums, hath rung night's yawning peel, there shall be done a deed of dreadful note. What's to be done? Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck, till thou applaud the deed. Come, sealing night, 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 the rookie wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, while night's black agents to their praise do rouse. Thou marvellous debt my words, but hold these still. Things bad begun make strung themselves by ill. So prithee, go with me. Exeant. Act three, scene three, a park near the palace. Enter three murderers. But who did bid thee join with us? Macbeth. He needs not our mistrust, since he delivers our offices and what we have to do to the direction just. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day, now spurs the lateed traveller a pace to gain the timely in, and near approaches the subject of our watch. Hark! I hear horses. Within. Give us a light there. Ho! Then tis he. The rest that are within the note of expectation are already in the court. His horses go about. Almost a mile, but he does usually. So all men do, from hence to the palace gate, make it their walk. A light! A light! Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch. Tis he. Stand toot. It will be rain tonight. Let it come down. They set upon Banquo. Oh treachery! Fly good Flayants, fly, fly, fly! Thou mist revenge, oh slave! Dies. Fleance escapes. Who did strike out the light? What's not the way? There's but one down. The sun has fled. We have lost best half of our affair. Well, let's away, and say how much is done. Excellent. Act III, Scene IV. The same. Hall in the palace. A banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, lords in attendance. You know your own degrees. Sit down. At first and last, the hearty welcome. Thanks, Your Majesty. Ourself will mingle with society and play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time we will require her welcome. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends. For my heart speaks. They are welcome. First murderer appears at the door. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks. Both sides are even. Here I'll sit in the midst. Be large in mirth. Anon will drink a measure the table round. Approaching the door. There's blood on thy face. Tis bankers, then. Tis better thee without than he within. Is he dispatched? My Lord, his throat is cut. That did I for him. Thou art the best of the cut throats. Yet he's good that did the like for Fleance. If thou didst it, thou art the non-pariah. Most raw, sir, Fleance escaped. Then comes my fit again. I had else been perfect, whole as the marble, founded as the rock, as broad and general as the casing air. But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bowed in to saucy doubts and fears. But bank was safe? I, my good Lord, safe in a ditchy bides with 20 trenched gashes on his head. The least a death to nature. Thanks for that. There the groan's serpent lies. The worm that's fled hath nature that in time will venom breed, no teeth for the present. Get thee gone. Tomorrow we'll hear ourselves again. Exit murderer. My Royal Lord, you do not give the cheer. The feast is sold that is not often vouched while tis a-making. Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home. From thence the sauce to meet is ceremony. Meeting were bare without it. Sweet remembrance, sir. Now good digestion weighed on appetite and health on both. Maid, please, your Highness, sit. The ghost of Banquo enters and sits in Macbeth's place. Here had we now our country's honour roofed, were the graced person of our Banquo present. Who may I rather challenge for unkindness than pity for mischance? His absence, sir, lays blame upon his promise. Please, your Highness, to grace us with your royal company. The table's full. Here is the place. Reserve, sir. Where? Here, my good Lord. What is it that moves your Highness? Which of you has done this? What, my good Lord? Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake thy gory locks at me. Gentlemen, rise, his highness is not well. Sit worthy, friends. My Lord is often thus, and hath been from his youth. Pray you keep seat. The fit is momentary. Upon a thought he will again be well. If much you note him, you shall offend him and extend his passion. Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man? I, and a bold one, that dare look on that which might appall the devil. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear. This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, led you to Duncan. O these flaws and starts, imposters to true fear would well become a woman's story at a winter's fire, characterized by her grand-dam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, you look but on a stool. Prithee, see there! Behold! Look, lo! How say you? Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too. If charnel houses and our graves must send those that we bury back, our monuments shall be the maws of kites. Ghost of Banquo vanishes. What quite a man in folly! If I stand here, I saw him. Thigh for shame! Blood hath been shed ere now in the olden time. Ere human statue purged the charnel wheel. Aye, and since, too, murders have been performed too terrible for the ear. The times have been that when the brains were out the man would die, and there an end. But now they rise again, with twenty mortal murders on their crowns, and push us from our stools. This is more strange than such a murder is. My worthy lord, your noble friends do lack you. I do forget. Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends. I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing to those that know me. Come, love and health to all. Then I'll sit down. Give me some wine. Fill full. I drink to the general joy of the whole table, and to our dear friend Banquo whom we miss. Would he were here? To all and him we thirst, and all to all. Our duties and the pledge. Re-enter ghost of Banquo. Avant, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold. Thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with. Think of this, good pierce, but as a thing of custom. Tis no other. Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. What man dare I dare! Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros, or the herken tiger. Take any shape but that! In my firm nerves shall never tremble, or be alive again, and dare me to the desert with thy sword, if trembling I inhabit, then protest me the baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow, unreal mockery, hence! Ghost of Banquo vanishes. Why so? Being gone. I am a man again. Pray you, sit still. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting with most admired disorder. Can such things be, and overcome us like a summer's cloud, without our special wonder? You make me strange, even to the disposition that I owe. When now I think you can behold such sights, and keep the natural ruby of your cheeks when mine is blanched with fear. What sights, my lord? I pray you speak not. He grows worse and worse, question enrages him. Had once good night. Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once. Good night, and better health, attend his majesty. A kind good night to all. Excellent all but Macbeth, and Lady Macbeth. It will have blood. They say, blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak. Augurs and understood relations have by maggot pies and chaffs and rooks brought forth the secretest man of blood. What is the night? Almost at odds with morning, which is which. How sayest thou, that Macduff denies his person at our great bidding? Did you send to him, sir? I hear it, by the way, but I will send. There's not a one of them, but in his house I keep a servant feed. I will to-morrow, and betimes I will to the weird sisters. More shall they speak, for now I am bent to know by the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, all causes shall give way. I am in blood, stepped in so far that should I wait no more. Returning were as tedious as gore. Strange things I have in head, that will to hand which must be acted ere they may be scanned. You lack the season of all natures. Sleep. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse is the initiate fear that wants hard use. We are yet, but young indeed. Excellent. Act three, scene five, a heath. Thunder. Enter the three witches, meeting Hecatee. Why, how now, Hecatee? You look angrily. Have I not reason, beldoms as you are, saucy and over-bold? How did you dare to trade and traffic with Macbeth in riddles and affairs of death? And I, the mistress of your charms, the close contriver of all harms was never called to bear my part or show the glory of our art? And which is worth all you have done with bean-butt for a wayward son, spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, loves for his own end not for you? But make amends now. Get you gone. And at the pit of Acheron meet me in the morning. Thither he will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide your charms and everything beside I am for the air. This night I'll spend unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon. Upon the corner of the moon there hangs a vaporous drop profound. I'll catch it ere it come to ground and that, distilled by magic slights, shall raise such artificial sprites as by the strength of their illusion shall draw him on to his confusion. He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear his hopes above wisdom, grace and fear. And you all know security is mortal's chiefest enemy. Music in a song within. Come away, come away, etc. Hark! I am called My little spirit, see, sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. Exit. Come, let's make haste. She'll soon be back again. Exit. Act three, scene six. Forrest, the palace. Enter Lennox and another lord. My farmer species have but hid your thoughts, which can interrupt further. Only, I say, things have been strangely born. The gracious Duncan was pitted of Macbeth. Mary, he was dead. And the right valiant, Benken, walked too late. Home, you may say. If it please you, valiance killed for valiance fled. Men must not walk too late, who cannot warn the thoughts how monstrous it was for Melcholene and for Doron Bain to kill their gracious father. Damn fact. How it did grieve Macbeth. Did he not strayed in pious rage, the two delinquent steer that were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep was not that normally done? Aye, and wisely too. For it would had angered and hard alive to hear the men denied, so that I say, he has borne all things well, and I do think that had he done concern under his key, as I am not pleased heaven, he shall not, they should find. What it were to kill a father, so should valiance, but peace and broad words, and cause he failed, his presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell where he bestows himself? The son of Duncan, from whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, lives in the English court, and is received of the most pious Edward, with such grace that the malevolence of fortune nothing takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff is gone to pray the holy king upon his aid to wake Northumberland and warlike Seward, that by the help of these, with him above to ratify the work, we may again give to our tables meat, sleep to our knights, free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, do faithful homage and receive free honours, all which we pine for now. And this report hath so exasperate the king, that he prepares for some attempt of war. Sent he to Macduff? He did. And with an absolute, Sir, not I, the cloudy messenger turns me his back and hums as who should say, You'll rue the time that clogs me with this answer. And that well might advise him to a caution, to hold what distance his wisdom can provide, that the holy angel fly to the court of England and unfold his message ere he come, that a swift blessing may soon return to this arse-offering country under a hand accursed. I'll send my prayers within. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act 4, Scene 1 A cavern in the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder, enter the three witches. Thrice the printed cat hath mewed. Thrice and once the hedge pig whined. Harpier cries, Tis time, tis time! Round about the cauldron go, in the poisoned entrails throw, towed the under-cold stone, days and nights has thirty-one. Sweltered venom, sleeping-got, boil thou first in the charm-pot. Double, double, toil and trouble, fire-burn a cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny-snake, in the cauldron boil and bake, eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog, adder's fork and blindworm's sting, lizard's leg and owlet's wing, for a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double, toil and trouble, fire-burn a cauldron bubble. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, witch's mummy, maw and goof, of the raven, salty shark, root of hemlock, dinged in the dark, liver of blaspheming Jew, gall of goat and slips of you, silvered in the moon's eclips, nose of turk and Tartar's lips, finger of birth-strangled babe, ditch delivered by a drab, make the gruel thick and slab, add there to a tiger's cauldron, for the ingredients of our cauldron. Double, double, toil and trouble, fire-burn a cauldron bubble. Cool it with a baboon's blood, then the charm is firm and good. Enter Hecatee to the other three witches. Oh, well done! I commend your pains, and every one shall share in the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, like elves and fairies in a ring, enchanting all that you put in. Music and a song, black spirits, etc. Hecatee retires. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Open locks, whoever knocks. Enter Macbeth. How now, you secret black and midnight hags, what is it you do? A deed without a name. I conjure you by that which you profess. How ere you come to know it, answer me. Tho' you untie the winds, and let them fight against the churches, though the yasty waves confound and swallow navigation up, though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down, though castles topple on their waters' heads, though palaces and pyramids do slope their heads to their foundations, though the treasure of nature's Germans tumble altogether, even till destruction sicken. Answer me to what I ask you. Speak. Demand. Will answer. Say, if thou'st rather hear it from our mouths or from our rasters. Call'em, let me see'em. Pour in thou's blood, that hath eaten, her nine pharaoh greased that sweeten. From the murderers give it throw into the flame. Come high or low, thyself at office deftly show. Thunder. First apparition, an armed head. Tell me thou unknown power. He knows thy thought, hear his speech, but say thou not. Macbeth. Macbeth. Macbeth. Beware, McDuff. Beware the thing of fife. Dismiss me enough. Descends. What's so air thou art? For thy good caution, thanks. Thou hast harped my fear a right. But one word more. He will not be commanded. Here's another, more potent than the first. Thunder. Second apparition, a bloody child. Macbeth. Macbeth. Macbeth. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. The bloody, bold and resolute. Laugh to scorn the power of man. For none of woman born shall harm Macbeth. Descends. Then live, McDuff. What need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double-sure, and take a bond of fate. Thou shalt not live that I may tail pale-hearted fear it lies and sleep in spite of thunder. Thunder. Third apparition, a child crowned with a tree in his hand. What is this that rises like the issue of a king, and wears upon his baby-brow the round and top of sovereignty? Listen, but speak not to it. Be lion-metal proud and take no care. Who chafes, who frets, aware conspires are. Macbeth shall never vanquished be until. Great Burnham wood to high, dusty hill shall come against him. Descends. That will never be. Who can impress the forest, bid the tree, unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet-bodeman's good! Rebellion's head rise never till the wood of Burnham rise, and our high-placed Macbeth shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath to time immortal custom. Yet my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell so much, shall Banquo's issue ever reign in this kingdom? Seek to know no more. I will be satisfied. Deny me this, and an eternal curse fall on you. Let me know. Why sinks that cauldron? And what noise is this? Oh, boys. Show. Show. Show! Show his eyes and grieve his heart. Come, like shadows, so depart. A show of eight kings, the last with a glass in his hand, ghost of Banquo following. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo. Down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs, and thy hair, thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. A third is like the former. Filthy hags, why do you show me this? A fourth? Start eyes. What? Will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet? A seventh? I'll see no more. And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass which shows me many more. And some I see that twofold balls and treble scepters carry. Horrible sight! Now I see tis true, for the blood-boltered Banquo smiles upon me and points at them for his. Apparitions vanish. What? Is this so? Aye, sir, all this is so. But why stands Macbeth thus amazedly? Come, sisters, cheer ye up his sprites and show the best of our delights. I'll charm the air to give a sound while you perform your antique round that this great king may kindly say our duties did his welcome pay. Music. The witches dance and then vanish with Hecatee. Where are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour's dye I accused in the calendar. Come in, without there. Enter, Lennox. What is your grace as well? Saw you, the weird sisters? No, my lord. Came they not by you? No, indeed, my lord. Infected be the air whereon they ride and damned all those that trust them. I did hear the galloping of horse. Who was it came by? These two are three, my lord, that bring your word. Macbeth is fled to England. Fled to England? Aye, my good lord. Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits. The flighty purpose never is overtook unless the deed go with it. From this moment the very firstlings of my heart shall be the firstlings of my hand. And even now, to crown my thoughts with axe, be it thought and done, the castle of McDuff I will surprise, seize upon fife, give to the edge of the sword his wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls that trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool, this deed I'll do before this purpose cool. But no more sights. Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. Exceint. Act four, scene two. Fife, McDuff's castle. Enter Lady McDuff, her son, and Ross. What had he done to make him fly the land? You must have patience, madam. He had none. His flight was madness. When our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors. You know not whether it was his wisdom or his fear. Wisdom. To leave his wife, to leave his babes, his mansion, and his titles in a place from whence himself does fly? He loves us not. He wants the natural touch. For the poor wren, the most diminutive of birds, will fight her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love, as little is the wisdom where the flight so runs against all reason. My dearest cousin, I pray you school yourself. But for your husband he is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows the fits of the season. I dare not speak much further, but cruel are the times when we are traitors and do not know ourselves, when we hold rumour from what we fear, yet know not what we fear, but float upon a wild and violent sea each way and move. I take my leave of you. Shall not be long, but I'll be here again. Things at the worst will cease or else climb upward to what they were before. My pretty cousin, blessing upon you. Fathered he is, and yet he's fatherless. I am so much a fool should I stay longer. It would be my disgrace in your discomfort. I take my leave at once. Exit. Sarah, your father's dead. And what will you do now? How will you live? As birds do, mother. What, with worms and flies? With what I get, I mean, and so do they. Poor bird, doubts never fear the net, nor lime, nor the gin. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead for all you're saying. Yes, he is dead. How will to thou do for a father? Nay, how will you do for a husband? Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. Then you'll buy him to sell again. Thou speaks with all thy wit, and yet, if they had wit enough for thee. Was my father a traitor, mother? Aye, that he was. What is a traitor? Why, one that swears and lies. And be all traitors that do so? Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? Every one. Who must hang them? Why, the honest men. Then the liars and swears are fools, for there are liars and swears in now to beat the honest men and hang up them. Now, God help thee, poor monkey. But how will thou do for a father? If he were dead, you'll dweep for him. If you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. Poor Prattler had our talks. Enter a messenger. Bless you, fair dame. I am not to you known, though in your state of honour I am perfect. 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 fright you, thou smithings, I am too savage. To do worse to you were felt cruelty, which is to nigh your person. Heaven preserve you. I, thereby, no longer. Exit. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm is often laudable. To do good sometime account a dangerous folly. Why, then, alas, do I put up that womanly defence and say I have done no harm? Enter murderers. What are these faces? Where's your husband? I hope in no place so unsanctified where such as thou mayst find him. Is it right, sir? Thou liest, thou shague-haired villain. What, you egg? Stabbing him. Young fry of treachery. He has killed me, mother. Run away, I pray you. Dice. Exit Lady McDuff, crying. Murder! Exit murderers, following her. Bring me where they are. Exit. Act four, scene three. England, before the king's palace. Enter Malcolm and McDuff. Let us seek out some desolate shade in there weep our sad bosoms empty. Let us rather hold fast the mortal sword and like good men bestride our downfallen birthdom. Each new mourn, new widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows strike heaven on the face, that it resounds as if it felt with Scotland and yelled out like syllable of doler. What I believe I'll wail, what no believe, and what I can redress, as I shall find the time to, friend, I will. What you have spoke it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose soul name blisters our tongues, was once thought honest, you have loved him well. He hath not touched you yet. I am young, but something you may deserve of him through me and wisdom to offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb to appease an angry god. I am not treacherous. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil in an imperial charge, but I shall crave your pardon. That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things fell would wear the brows of grace, yet grace must still look so. I have lost my hopes. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child those precious motives, those strong knots of love without leave-taking? I pray you, let not my jealousies be your dishonours, but mine own safeties. You may be rightly just whatever I shall think. BLEED! BLEED! Poor country! Great tyranny! Lay thou thy basis sure, for goodness dare not check thee. Where thou thy wrongs? The title is afeared. Fare thee well, Lord. I would not be the villain that thou thinkst for the whole space that is in the tyrant's grasp, and the rich east to boot. Be not offended. I speak not as in absolute fear of you. 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 with all there would be hands uplifted in my right. And here from gracious England have I offer of goodly thousands. But for all this, when I shall tread upon the tyrant's head or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country shall have more vices than it had before, more suffer and more sundry ways than ever by him that shall succeed. What should he be? 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 his purest snow. And the poor state esteem him as a lamb being compared with my confineless harms. Not an allegiance of horrid hell can come a devil more damned in evils to top Macbeth. I grant him bloody, luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin that has a name. 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 or bear that did oppose my will. Better Macbeth than such in one terrain. Boundless intemperance in nature is a tyranny. It hath been the 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 we have willing dames enough. There cannot be that vulture in you to devour so many as will to greatness dedicate themselves, finding it so inclined. With this there grows in my most ill-composed affection such a staunchless 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. This avarice sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been the sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear, Scotland hath foisms to fill up your will of your mere own. All these are portable with other graces weighed. But I have none, the king becoming graces as justice, verity, temperance, stableness, bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abounded the division of each several crime, acting it many ways. Nay, had I power I should pour the sweet milk of concorded to hell, uproar the universal peace confound all unity on earth. Oh, Scotland, Scotland! If such a one be fit to govern, speak. I am as I have spoken. Fit to govern? No, not to live. O nation miserable, with an untitled tyrant bloody sceptred, when shall thou see thy wholesome days again, since that the truest issue of thy throne, by his own interdiction, stands accursed, and does blaspheme his breed. The royal father was a most sainted king. The queen that bore thee, often owed upon her knees than on her feet, died every day she lived. Fare thee well. These evils thou repeats'd upon thyself hath banished me from Scotland. O my breast, thy hope ends here. Macduff, this noble passion, child of integrity, hath from my soul wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts to thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth, by many of these trains, hath sought to win me into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me from over credulous haste. 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 foresworn, 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. My first false speaking was this upon myself. What I am truly is thine in my poor countries to command. Wither indeed before thy hero-approach, old seaward with ten thousand warlike men already at a point was setting forth. Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness be like our warranted quarrel. Why are you silent? Such welcome, and unwelcome things, at once tis hard to reconcile. Enter a doctor. Well, moronon, comes the king forth, I pray you. Aye, 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. I thank you, doctor. Exit, doctor. What's the disease he means? Tis called the evil, a most miraculous work in this good king, which often, since my here remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, himself best knows. But strangely visited people, all swan 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 gives the healing benediction. With this strange virtue he hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, and sundry blessings hang about his throne that speak him full of grace. Enter Ross. See, who comes here? My countrymen. But yet I know him not. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. I know him now. O God, betimes remove the means that makes us strangers. Sir, amen. Stand, Scotland, what it did? Alas, poor country, almost afraid to know itself, 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 rend the air are made not marked, where violent sorrow seems a modern ecstasy, good man's knell is there scarce asked for who, and good man's lives expire before the flowers in their caps, dying or ere they sicken. Oh, relation too nice and yet too true. What's the newest grief? That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker, each minute teams a new one. How does my wife? Why? Well? And all my children? Well, too. The tyrant has not battered at their peace? No. They were well at peace when I did leave them. But not a nigger of your speech, how ghost? When I came hither to transport the tidings, which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour of many worthy fellows that were out, which was to my belief witness the rather, for that I saw the tyrant's power afoot. Now is the time of help. Your eye in Scotland would create soldiers, make our women fight to doth their dire distresses. Be it their comfort, we are coming thither. Gracious England hath lent us good seaward and ten thousand men, an older and a better soldier, none that Christendom gives out. Would I could answer this comfort with the like? But I have words that would be howled out in the desert air, where hearing should not latch them. What concern they? The general cause, or is it a fee grief due to some single breast? No mind that's honest, but in it shares some woe, though the main part pertains to you alone. If it be mine, keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, which shall possess them with the heaviest sound that ever yet they heard. Hum, I guess at it. Your castle is surprised. Your wife and babe savagely slaughtered to relate the manner were on the quarry of these murdered deer to add the death of you. Merciful heaven, what man? Nare, pull your hat upon your brows, give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the over-fraught heart and bids it break. My children, too? Wife, children, servants, all that could be found. And I must be from fence. My wife killed, too? I have said. Be comforted. Let us make medicines of our great revenge to cure this deadly grief. He has no children. All my pretty ones. Did you say all? Oh, alchite, all? What, all my pretty chickens and their dammit, one fell swoop. Dispute it like a man. I shall do so. But I must also feel it as a man. Cannot, but remember such things were that were most precious to me. Did heaven look on and would not take their part? Oh, sinful McDuff, they were all struck for thee. Not that I am. Not for their own demerits, but for mine. Feel slaughter on their souls. Have addressed them now. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief convert to anger. Let not the heart enrage it. Oh, I could play the woman with my eyes and bragged with my tongue. But, gentle heavens, cut short all into mission. Front to front. Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself within my sword's length. Set him. If he escape, heaven forgive him, too. This tune goes manly. Come, we go to the king. Our power is ready. Back is nothing but our leave. Macbeth is ripe for shaking and the powers above put on their instruments. Receive what cheer ye may. The night is long that never finds the day. Excellent. End of Act Four of the Tragedy of Macbeth by William Shakespeare.