Macbeth William Shakespeare (ereader with android .txt) đ
- Author: William Shakespeare
Book online «Macbeth William Shakespeare (ereader with android .txt) đ». Author William Shakespeare
Rebellionâs head, rise never till the wood
Of Birnam rise, and our high-placed Macbeth
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath
To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art
Can tell so much: shall Banquoâs issue ever
Reign in this kingdom? All Seek to know no more. Macbeth
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? Hautboys.
Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart!
Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down!
Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls. 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! Iâll see no more:
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass
Which shows me many more; and some I see
That two-fold balls and treble scepters carry:
Horrible sight! Now, I see, âtis true;
For the blood-bolterâd Banquo smiles upon me,
And points at them for his. Apparitions vanish. What, is this so?
Ay, sir, all this is so: but why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,
And show the best of our delights:
Iâll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antic round;
That this great king may kindly say,
Our duties did his welcome pay. Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish, with Hecate.
Where are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour
Stand aye accursed in the calendar!
Come in, without there!
Infected be the air whereon they ride;
And damnâd all those that trust them! I did hear
The galloping of horse: who wasât came by?
âTis two or three, my lord, that bring you word
Macduff is fled to England.
Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits:
The flighty purpose never is oâertook
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 acts, be it thought and done:
The castle of Macduff I will surprise;
Seize upon Fife; give to the edge oâ the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed Iâll do before this purpose cool.
But no more sights!â âWhere are these gentlemen?
Come, bring me where they are. Exeunt.
Fife. Macduffâs castle.
Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross. Lady Macduff What had he done, to make him fly the land? Ross You must have patience, madam. Lady MacduffHe 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 coz,
I pray you, school yourself: but for your husband,
He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows
The fits oâ 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 Iâll be here again:
Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward
To what they were before. My pretty cousin,
Blessing upon you!
I am so much a fool, should I stay longer,
It would be my disgrace and your discomfort:
I take my leave at once. Exit.
Sirrah, your fatherâs dead:
And what will you do now? How will you live?
Poor bird! thouâldst never fear the net nor lime,
The pitfall nor the gin.
Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for.
My father is not dead, for all your saying.
Thou speakâst with all thy wit; and yet, iâ faith,
With wit enough for thee.
Now, God help thee, poor monkey!
But how wilt thou do for a father?
Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,
Though in your state of
Comments (0)