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    Act 2. Scene I

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    Chapter 8
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    SCENE I. Court of Macbeth's castle.

    Enter BANQUO, and FLEANCE bearing a torch before him
    BANQUO
    How goes the night, boy?

    FLEANCE
    The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.

    BANQUO
    And she goes down at twelve.

    FLEANCE
    I take't, 'tis later, sir.

    BANQUO
    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?

    MACBETH
    A friend.

    BANQUO
    What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed:
    He hath been in unusual pleasure, and
    Sent forth great largess to your offices.
    This diamond he greets your wife withal,
    By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up
    In measureless content.

    MACBETH
    Being unprepared,
    Our will became the servant to defect;
    Which else should free have wrought.

    BANQUO
    All's well.
    I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:
    To you they have show'd some truth.

    MACBETH
    I think not of them:
    Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,
    We would spend it in some words upon that business,
    If you would grant the time.

    BANQUO
    At your kind'st leisure.

    MACBETH
    If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis,
    It shall make honour for you.

    BANQUO
    So I lose none
    In seeking to augment it, but still keep
    My bosom franchised and allegiance clear,
    I shall be counsell'd.

    MACBETH
    Good repose the while!

    BANQUO
    Thanks, sir: the like to you!

    Exeunt BANQUO and FLEANCE

    MACBETH
    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 marshall'st me the way that I was going;
    And such an instrument I was to use.
    Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
    Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
    And on thy blade and dudgeon 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 o'er the one halfworld
    Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
    The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
    Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,
    Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
    Whose howl's 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
    Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
    And take the present horror from the time,
    Which now suits with it. Whiles 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
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