Macbeth is a Shakespearian tragedy about Macbeth, a nobleman and renowned warrior. After witches inform him that he will be king, he travels with his companion Banquo to King Duncan's castle. Macbeth's wife, Lady Macbeth, convinces him to kill Duncan and he obeys. After killing Banquo and others, Banquo's ghost returns to the castle, haunting Macbeth. Macbeth receives a tragic prophesy from the witches, Lady Macbeth kills herself out of guilt and King Duncan's son, Prince Malcom, invades the kingdom and kills Macbeth.
Macbeth (c.1605) is a play by William Shakespeare. It is often seen as an archetypal tale of the desire for power and the betrayal of loyalty.
Second Witch : When the hurly-burly's done,When the battle's lost and won.
Third Witch : That will be ere the set of sun. First Witch : Where's the place? Second Witch : Upon the heath Third Witch :There to meet with Macbeth.
First Witch : I come, Graymalkin! Second Witch : Paddock calls. Third Witch : Anon.
The multiplying villainies of nature
Do swarm upon him) from the Western Isles
Of kerns and gallowglasses 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)
Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish'd steel,
Which smoked with bloody execution,
Like valour's minion,
Carv'd out his passage.
Give me, quoth I: Aroint thee, witch! the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Third Witch : All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
Win us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence.
As one that had been studied in his death,
To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,
As 'twere a careless trifle.
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An absolute trust.
It is too full o' 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.
Under my battlements. Come, you spiritsThat tend on mortal thoughts! unsex 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!
Could trammel 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'd jump the life to come.
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn
As you have done to this.
But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we'll not fail.
Gives way to in repose.
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.
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings.
The very stones prate of my where-about.
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave 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.
Are but as pictures. 'Tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil.
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
Porter: Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, 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 lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him.
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence
The life o' the building!
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,
And look on death itself! up, up, and see
The great doom's image!
There's nothing serious in mortality:
All is but toys; renown and grace is dead;
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to brag of.
The expedition of my violent love
Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan,
His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood,
And his gash'd stabs looked like a breach in nature,
for Ruin's wasteful entrance. There, the murderers;
Steeped in the colors of their trade, their very daggers
unmannerly breached with gore. Who could refrain,
That had a heart to love, and in that heart,
Courage to make's love known?
Of treasonous malice!
Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine proceeding.
Have so incens'd, that I am reckless what I do
To spite the world.
First Murderer: And I another,So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it, or be rid on't.
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy.
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.
The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums,
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed of dreadful note.
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 rooky wood.
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,
While night's black agents to their preys do rouse.
Banquo: O, treachery!— Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!Thou mayst revenge.— O, slave!
The subject of our watch.
Which might appall the devil.
Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst,
And all to all.
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and 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!
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Shall harm Macbeth.
Shall come against him.
Macbeth : That will never be. Who can impress the forest, bid the tree,
Unfix his earthbound root?
Where such as thou mayst find him.
First Murderer: He's a traitor. Son: Thou liest, thou shag-hair'd villain! First Murderer: What, you egg!
Yet grace must still look so.
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,
And the rich East to boot.
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
A modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell
Is there scarce askt for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying or e'er they sicken.
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?
But I must also feel it as a man:
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Doctor : Therein the patientMust minister to himself.
Macbeth : Throw physic to the dogs;— I'll none of it.
Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up.
Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home.
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts
Cannot once start me.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrowCreeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
But get thee back. My soul is too much charged
With blood of thine already.
Macduff : I have no words.My voice is in my sword. Thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out!
Macduff: Despair thy charm;And let the angel whom thou still hast served
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Macbeth: Accursed be the tongue that tells me so,For it hath cow'd my better part of man!
And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to our ear,
And break it to our hope.