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To cure this deadly grief.
Macd. He has no children.-All my pretty ones?
But I must also feel it as a man:
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.-Did heaven look on,
Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief
Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may:
SCENE I. Dunsinane. A room in the castle.
Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.
her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon 't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
Doct. A great perturbation in nature,—to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching!-In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?
Gent. That, sir, which I will not report after her. Doct. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. Gent. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.-Lo you, here she comes!
Enter Lady MACBETH, with a taper.
This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.
Doct. How came she by that light?
Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command.
Doct. You see, her eyes are open.
Gent. Ay, but their sense' are shut.
Doct. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.
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 'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky!-Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear 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
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,-
Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.
Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:-I 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.
Doct. Will she go now to bed?
Doct. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
Good night, good doctor.
To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds.
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?
The mind I sway by and the heart I bear
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.
Enter a Servant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon!
Serv. There is ten thousand
Macb. Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,