Macbeth (Including The Biography of the Infamous Author). William ShakespeareЧитать онлайн книгу.
pass’d in probation with you
How you were borne in hand, how cross’d, the instruments,
Who wrought with them, and all things else that might
To half a soul and to a notion craz’d
Say, “Thus did Banquo.”
FIRST MURDERER.
You made it known to us.
MACBETH.
I did so; and went further, which is now
Our point of second meeting. Do you find
Your patience so predominant in your nature,
That you can let this go? Are you so gospell’d,
To pray for this good man and for his issue,
Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave,
And beggar’d yours forever?
FIRST MURDERER.
We are men, my liege.
MACBETH.
Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men;
As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,
Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept
All by the name of dogs: the valu’d file
Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
The housekeeper, the hunter, every one
According to the gift which bounteous nature
Hath in him clos’d; whereby he does receive
Particular addition, from the bill
That writes them all alike: and so of men.
Now, if you have a station in the file,
Not i’ the worst rank of manhood, say it;
And I will put that business in your bosoms,
Whose execution takes your enemy off;
Grapples you to the heart and love of us,
Who wear our health but sickly in his life,
Which in his death were perfect.
SECOND MURDERER.
I am one, my liege,
Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world
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.
MACBETH.
Both of you
Know Banquo was your enemy.
BOTH MURDERERS.
True, my lord.
MACBETH.
So is he mine; and in such bloody distance,
That every minute of his being thrusts
Against my near’st of life; and though I could
With barefac’d power sweep him from my sight,
And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,
For certain friends that are both his and mine,
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall
Who I myself struck down: and thence it is
That I to your assistance do make love;
Masking the business from the common eye
For sundry weighty reasons.
SECOND MURDERER.
We shall, my lord,
Perform what you command us.
FIRST MURDERER.
Though our lives—
MACBETH.
Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most,
I will advise you where to plant yourselves;
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time,
The moment on’t; for’t must be done tonight
And something from the palace; always thought
That I require a clearness; and with him,—
To leave no rubs nor botches in the work,—
Fleance his son, that keeps him company,
Whose absence is no less material to me
Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate
Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart:
I’ll come to you anon.
BOTH MURDERERS.
We are resolv’d, my lord.
MACBETH.
I’ll call upon you straight: abide within.
[Exeunt Murderers.]
It is concluded:—Banquo, thy soul’s flight,
If it find heaven, must find it out tonight.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace.
[Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.]
LADY MACBETH.
Is Banquo gone from court?
SERVANT.
Ay, madam, but returns again tonight.
LADY MACBETH.
Say to the king, I would attend his leisure
For a few words.
SERVANT.
Madam, I will.
[Exit.]
LADY MACBETH.
Naught’s had, all’s spent,
Where our desire is got without content:
‘Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy.
[Enter Macbeth.]
How now, my lord! why do you keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making;
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without all remedy
Should be without regard: what’s done is done.
MACBETH.
We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it;
She’ll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let the frame of things disjoint,
Both the worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams
That shake us nightly: better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;
After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.