Thou perjure, and thou fimular of virtue, s
That art incestuous! caitiff, shake to pieces,
That, under cover of convivial feeming,
Haft practis'd on man's life.-Clofe pent up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and afk
Those dreadful fummoners grace !—I am a man
More finn'd againft, than finning.

SHAKSPEAR

CHAP. XXII.

MACBETH'S SOLILOQUY.

Is this a dagger which I fee before me,

The handle tow'rd my hand? come, let me clutch thee,-

I have thee not, and yet I fee thee ftill.
Art thou not, fatal vifion, fenfible
To feeling, as to fight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a falfe creation
Proceeding from the heat oppreffed brain
I fee thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which I now draw.-

Thou marshall'ft me the way that I was going;
And fuch an inftrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other fenfes,
Or else worth all the reft-I fee thee ftill;
And on the blade o' th' dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not fo before.-There's no fuch thing.-
It is the bloody business, which informs

Thus to mine eyes.-Now o'er one half the world
Nature feems dead, and wicked Dreams abuse
The curtain'd Sleep; now Witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murder,
(Alarmed by his fentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl's his watch,) thus with his ftealthy pace
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his defign

R

Mores

Moves like a ghoft.-Thou found and firm-fet earth Hear not my fteps, which way they walk, for fear ftones prate of my where- about;

The

very

And take the present horror from the time,~

Which now fuits with it.Whilft I threat, he livesgo, and it is done; the bell invites me.

I

Hear it not, Duncan! for it is a knell

That fummons thee to Heaven or to Hell!

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XXIII.

MACDUFF, MALCOLM, AND ROSSE.

MACD. SEE who comes here?

MAL. My countryman; but yet I know him not; MACD. My ever gentle coufin, welcome hither. MAL. I know him now. Good God! betimes remove The means that makes us ftrangers!

Rosse. Sir, Amen.

MACD. Stands Scotland where it did?

ROSSE. Ala s! poor country,

Almoft afraid to know itself. It cannot

Be call'd our mother, but our grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once feen to smile;
Where fighs, and groans, and fhrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow feems
A modern ecftacy; the dead man's knell

Is there scarce afk'd for whom and good men's lives

:

Expire before the flowers in their caps;

Dying or e'er they ficken.

MACD. Oh, relation

Too nice, and yet too true!

MAL. What's the newest grief?

Resse. That of an hour's age doth hifs the speaker,

Each minute teems a new one.

MACD

MACD. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?

Rosse. No; they were at peace when I did leave 'em. MACD. Be not a niggard of your fpeech: how goes it? ROSSE, 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 witnefs'd the rather, For that I faw the tyrant's power afoot. Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland Would create foldiers, and make women fight, To doff their dire diftreffes.

MAL. Be't their comfort

We're coming thither: gracious England hath,
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men;
An older, and a better foldier, none
That Chriftendom gives out.

ROSSE. Would I could answer

This comfort with the like; but I have words
That would be howl'd out in the defert air,
Where hearing fhould not catch them.

MACD. What concern they?

The gen'ral caufe? or is it a free grief,
Due to fome fingle breast?

Ross. No mind that's honeft,

But in it fhares fome wo; though the main part

Pertains to you alone.

MACD. If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

Ross E. Let not your ears defpife my tongue for ever,

Which fhall poffefs them with the heaviest found

That ever yet they heard.

MACD. Hum! I guess at it.

ROSSE. Your caftle is furpris'd, your wife and babes

Savagely flaughter'd! to relate the manner,

Were on the quarry of thefe murder'd deer

To add the death of you.

MAL. Merciful Heaven!

What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows,
Give forrow words! the grief that does not speak,
Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.
My children too ?

MACD.

ROSSE. Wife, children, fervants, all that could be found. MACD. And I must be from thence! my wife kill'd too? RossE. I've faid.

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,

To cure this deadly grief.

MACD. He has no children.-All my pretty ones! Did you fay all? what, all? oh, hell-kite! all?

MAL. Endure it like a man.

MACD. I fhall do fo;

But I muft alfo feel it as a man.

I cannot but remember fuch things were,

That were moft precious to me.

Did Heav'n look on,

Sinful Macduff,

And would not take their part?
They were all ftruck for thee! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell flaughter on their fouls. Heav'n reft them now!
MAL. Be this the whetstone of your fword, let grief
Convert to wrath; blunt not the heart, enrage it!

MACD. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle Heav'n!
Cut fhort all intermiffion: front to front

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;
Within my fword's length fet him, if he 'scape,
Then Heav'n forgive him too!

MAL.

MAL. This tune goes manly.

Come, go we to the King, our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for fhaking, and the powers above

Put on their inftruments. Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XXIV.

ANTONY'S SOLILOQUY OVER, CÆSAR'S BODY.

PARDON me, thou bleeding piece of earth!

That I am meek and gentle with thefe butchers.

Thou art the ruins of the nobleft man

That ever lived in the tide of times.

Wo to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,

(Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utt'rance of my tongue,)

A curfe fhall light upon the line of men:

Domestic fury, and fierce civil ftrife,
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and deftruction fhall be fo in ufe,
And dreadful objects fo familiar,

That mothers fhall but fmile, when they behold
Their infants quarter'd by the hands of war;
All pity chok'd with cuftom of fell deeds;
And Cæfar's fpirit ranging for revenge,
With Até by his fide come hot from Hell,
Shall in thefe confines, with a monarch's voice,
Cry Havock, and let flip the dogs of war,

SHAKSPEARE.