That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold:

What hath quench’d them hath given me fire.—Hark!—Peace!

It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman,

Which gives the stern’st good night. He is about it.

The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms

Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d their possets,

That death and nature do contend about them,

Whether they live or die.

[_Within._] Who’s there?—what, ho!

Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d,

And ’tis not done. Th’ attempt and not the deed

Confounds us.—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready;

He could not miss ’em.—Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I had done’t.—My husband!

I have done the deed.—Didst thou not hear a noise?

I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.

Did not you speak?

When?

Now.

As I descended?

Ay.

Hark!—Who lies i’ th’ second chamber?

Donalbain.

This is a sorry sight.

A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one cried, “Murder!”

That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them.

But they did say their prayers, and address’d them

Again to sleep.

There are two lodg’d together.

One cried, “God bless us!” and, “Amen,” the other,

As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands.

List’ning their fear, I could not say “Amen,”

When they did say, “God bless us.”

Consider it not so deeply.

But wherefore could not I pronounce “Amen”?

I had most need of blessing, and “Amen”

Stuck in my throat.

These deeds must not be thought

After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more!

Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep;

Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,

The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,

Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

What do you mean?

Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to all the house:

“Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor

Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more!”

Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,

You do unbend your noble strength to think

So brainsickly of things. Go get some water,

And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—

Why did you bring these daggers from the place?

They must lie there: go carry them, and smear

The sleepy grooms with blood.

I’ll go no more:

I am afraid to think what I have done;

Look on’t again I dare not.

Infirm of purpose!

Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead

Are but as pictures. ’Tis the eye of childhood

That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,

I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal,

For it must seem their guilt.

Whence is that knocking?

How is’t with me, when every noise appals me?

What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes!

Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red.

My hands are of your color, but I shame

To wear a heart so white. [_Knocking within._] I hear knocking

At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber.

A little water clears us of this deed:

How easy is it then! Your constancy

Hath left you unattended.—[_Knocking within._] Hark, more knocking.

Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us

And show us to be watchers. Be not lost

So poorly in your thoughts.

To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself. [_Knocking within._]

Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!