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Unto our gentle senses.
This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath, Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made His pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where
Most breed and haunt, I have observ'd, the air
Enter Lady Macbeth.
Dun. See, see! our honour'd hostess! The love that follows us, sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you, How you shall bid God yield us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble.
All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business, to contend Against those honours deep and broad, wherewith Your majesty loads our house: For those of old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them,
We rest your hermits.
And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him
Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,
To make their audit at your highness' pleasure,
Still to return your own.
THE SAME. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.
Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over the stage, a sewer, and divers servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.
Mac. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: If the assassination
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
Enter Lady Macbeth.
Lady M. He has almost supp'd; Why have you left the chamber?
Mac. Hath he ask'd for me?
Know you not, he has?
Was the hope drunk,
Wherein you dress'd yourself?, hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time,
As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
Letting I dare not wait upon I would,
What beast was it then, That made you break this enterprize to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place, Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness
Does unmake you. I have given suck; and know
If we should fail,
Mac. Lady M.
But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
His spungy officers; who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell?
Mac. Bring forth men-children only! For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd, When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers, That they have don't? Lady M.
Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar Upon his death?
Mac. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth