Shakespeare's First Folio Part 558

Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in both the Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treason enough for G.o.ds sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen: oh come in, Equiuocator.

Knock.

Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an English Taylor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose: Come in Taylor, here you may rost your Goose.

Knock.

Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but this place is too cold for h.e.l.l. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further: I had thought to haue let in some of all Professions, that goe the Primrose way to th' euerlasting Bonfire.

Knock.

Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.

Enter Macduff, and Lenox.

Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed, That you doe lye so late?

Port. Faith Sir, we were carowsing till the second c.o.c.k: And Drinke, Sir, is a great prouoker of three things

Macd. What three things does Drinke especially prouoke?

Port. Marry, Sir, Nose-painting, Sleepe, and Vrine.

Lecherie, Sir, it prouokes, and vnprouokes: it prouokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much Drinke may be said to be an Equiuocator with Lecherie: it makes him, and it marres him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it perswades him, and dis-heartens him; makes him stand too, and not stand too: in conclusion, equiuocates him in a sleepe, and giuing him the Lye, leaues him

Macd. I beleeue, Drinke gaue thee the Lye last Night

Port. That it did, Sir, i'the very Throat on me: but I requited him for his Lye, and (I thinke) being too strong for him, though he tooke vp my Legges sometime, yet I made a s.h.i.+ft to cast him.

Enter Macbeth.

Macd. Is thy Master stirring?

Our knocking ha's awak'd him: here he comes

Lenox. Good morrow, n.o.ble Sir

Macb. Good morrow both

Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?

Macb. Not yet

Macd. He did command me to call timely on him, I haue almost slipt the houre

Macb. Ile bring you to him

Macd. I know this is a ioyfull trouble to you: But yet 'tis one

Macb. The labour we delight in, Physicks paine: This is the Doore

Macd. Ile make so bold to call, for 'tis my limitted seruice.

Exit Macduffe.

Lenox. Goes the King hence to day?

Macb. He does: he did appoint so

Lenox. The Night ha's been vnruly: Where we lay, our Chimneys were blowne downe, And (as they say) lamentings heard i'th' Ayre; Strange Schreemes of Death, And Prophecying, with Accents terrible, Of dyre Combustion, and confus'd Euents, New hatch'd toth' wofull time.

The obscure Bird clamor'd the liue-long Night.

Some say, the Earth was Feuorous, And did shake

Macb. 'Twas a rough Night

Lenox. My young remembrance cannot paralell A fellow to it.

Enter Macduff.

Macd. O horror, horror, horror, Tongue nor Heart cannot conceiue, nor name thee

Macb. and Lenox. What's the matter?

Macd. Confusion now hath made his Master-peece: Most sacrilegious Murther hath broke ope The Lords anoynted Temple, and stole thence The Life o'th' Building

Macb. What is't you say, the Life?

Lenox. Meane you his Maiestie?

Macd. Approch the Chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon. Doe not bid me speake: See, and then speake your selues: awake, awake,

Exeunt. Macbeth and Lenox.

Ring the Alarum Bell: Murther, and Treason, Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolme awake, Shake off this Downey sleepe, Deaths counterfeit, And looke on Death it selfe: vp, vp, and see The great Doomes Image: Malcolme, Banquo, As from your Graues rise vp, and walke like Sprights, To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell.

Bell rings. Enter Lady.

Lady. What's the Businesse?

That such a hideous Trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the House? speake, speake

Macd. O gentle Lady, 'Tis not for you to heare what I can speake: The repet.i.tion in a Womans eare, Would murther as it fell.

Enter Banquo.

O Banquo, Banquo, Our Royall Master's murther'd

Lady. Woe, alas: What, in our House?

Ban. Too cruell, any where.

Deare Duff, I prythee contradict thy selfe, And say, it is not so.

Enter Macbeth, Lenox, and Rosse.

Macb. Had I but dy'd an houre before this chance, I had liu'd a blessed time: for from this instant, There's nothing serious in Mortalitie: All is but Toyes: Renowne and Grace is dead, The Wine of Life is drawne, and the meere Lees Is left this Vault, to brag of.

Enter Malcolme and Donalbaine.

Donal. What is amisse?

Macb. You are, and doe not know't: The Spring, the Head, the Fountaine of your Blood Is stopt, the very Source of it is stopt

Macd. Your Royall Father's murther'd

Mal. Oh, by whom?

Lenox. Those of his Chamber, as it seem'd, had don't: Their Hands and Faces were all badg'd with blood, So were their Daggers, which vnwip'd, we found Vpon their Pillowes: they star'd, and were distracted, No mans Life was to be trusted with them

Macb. O, yet I doe repent me of my furie, That I did kill them