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Open, locks, Whoever knocks! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife. He will not be commanded. Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? Thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.
What is this, That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you!
Let me know. Why sinks that cauldron? Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo. Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:—and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. A third is like the former. Why do you show me this? Another yet! Horrible sight! Ay, sir, all this is so:—but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly? Where are they? From this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. Come, bring me where they are. Enter Lady Macduff her Son and Ross.
He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once.
And what will you do now? How will you live? Poor bird! Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person.
Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm?
What are these faces? Enter Malcolm and Macduff. What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon. That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so.
Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking? You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think.
Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee! Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds.
But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold—the time you may so hoodwink. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, Of your mere own. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.
Fit to govern? No, not to live. Thy royal father Was a most sainted king. Fare thee well! Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me!
I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow; and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself.
Why are you silent? Ay, sir. There are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend.
With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace. Alas, poor country, Almost afraid to know itself! Now is the time of help. Your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses. Gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out.
Would I could answer This comfort with the like! What concern they? The general cause? Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. Merciful heaven! Give sorrow words. He has no children. Did you say all? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me. Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee!
Naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now! Be this the whetstone of your sword.
Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue! This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the King. Our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments.
Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day. Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.
I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?
A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. Hark, she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
Out, damned spot! One; two. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is she now? She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. Oh, oh, oh! This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.
Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale. To bed, to bed. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. To bed, to bed, to bed. Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician. Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her. I think, but dare not speak. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man.
For certain, sir, he is not. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies. Or so much as it needs To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. Was he not born of woman? What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! What soldiers, whey-face? Give me my armour. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.
Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff: Seyton, send out. Bring it after me. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here.
Thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe.
Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must arbitrate; Towards which advance the war. Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton and Soldiers. I have almost forgot the taste of fears. She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps 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! Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff and their Army, with boughs. Now near enough. Your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are. Fare you well. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
They have tied me to a stake. I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course. Such a one Am I to fear, or none. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear.
Thou liest, abhorred tyrant. Thou wast born of woman. That way the noise is. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune!
And more I beg not. Enter Malcolm and old Siward. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? I have no words; My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.
Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought. Ay, and brought off the field. They say he parted well and paid his score: And so, God be with him! Hail, King, for so thou art. We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.
You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Macbeth. Author: William Shakespeare. Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? That will be ere the set of sun. Where the place? Upon the heath. There to meet with Macbeth. I come, Graymalkin! Paddock calls. Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.
O valiant cousin! Who comes here? The worthy Thane of Ross. God save the King! Great happiness! What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. Enter the three Witches. An edition of Kiss, Bow, or Shake Hands This edition was published in by B. Adams in Holbrook, Mass. Written in English — pages. Not in Library.
Libraries near you: WorldCat. Kiss, bow, or shake hands: Asia : how to do business in 12 Asian countries , Adams Media. Kiss, bow, or shake hands: Europe , Adams Business. Paperback in English - 1st edition. Places Asia. Edition Notes Includes index. His father, remonstrative, but covertly proud of the excess, had paid his bills and brought him home. They were not much more than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found great pleasure in the society of one who had seen so much of the world and was reputed to own some of the biggest hotels in France.
Such a person as his father agreed was well worth knowing, even if he had not been the charming companion he was. Villona was entertaining also—a brilliant pianist—but, unfortunately, very poor. The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The two cousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend sat behind. Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a deep bass hum of melody for miles of the road. The Frenchmen flung their laughter and light words over their shoulders and often Jimmy had to strain forward to catch the quick phrase.
This was not altogether pleasant for him, as he had nearly always to make a deft guess at the meaning and shout back a suitable answer in the face of a high wind.
Rapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so does the possession of money. He had been seen by many of his friends that day in the company of these Continentals.
It was pleasant after that honour to return to the profane world of spectators amid nudges and significant looks. Then as to money—he really had a great sum under his control. This knowledge had previously kept his bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness and, if he had been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there had been question merely of some freak of the higher intelligence, how much more so now when he was about to stake the greater part of his substance!
It was a serious thing for him. How smoothly it ran. In what style they had come careering along the country roads! The journey laid a magical finger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the machinery of human nerves strove to answer the bounding courses of the swift blue animal. They drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with unusual traffic, loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of impatient tram-drivers.
A little knot of people collected on the footpath to pay homage to the snorting motor. The car steered out slowly for Grafton Street while the two young men pushed their way through the knot of gazers.
They walked northward with a curious feeling of disappointment in the exercise, while the city hung its pale globes of light above them in a haze of summer evening. Jimmy, too, looked very well when he was dressed and, as he stood in the hall giving a last equation to the bows of his dress tie, his father may have felt even commercially satisfied at having secured for his son qualities often unpurchaseable.
His father, therefore, was unusually friendly with Villona and his manner expressed a real respect for foreign accomplishments; but this subtlety of his host was probably lost upon the Hungarian, who was beginning to have a sharp desire for his dinner.
The dinner was excellent, exquisite. The young men supped in a snug room lit by electric candle-lamps. They talked volubly and with little reserve. A graceful image of his, he thought, and a just one. He admired the dexterity with which their host directed the conversation.
The five young men had various tastes and their tongues had been loosened. Villona, with immense respect, began to discover to the mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the English madrigal, deploring the loss of old instruments. Here was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, under generous influences, felt the buried zeal of his father wake to life within him: he aroused the torpid Routh at last.
The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glass to Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw open a window significantly. That night the city wore the mask of a capital.
They talked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their shoulders. The people made way for them. At the corner of Grafton Street a short fat man was putting two handsome ladies on a car in charge of another fat man. The car drove off and the short fat man caught sight of the party. A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American.
No one knew very well what the talk was about. They got up on a car, squeezing themselves together amid much laughter. They drove by the crowd, blended now into soft colours, to a music of merry bells. They took the train at Westland Row and in a few seconds, as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out of Kingstown Station.
The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy; he was an old man:. It was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened mirror at their feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms, singing Cadet Roussel in chorus, stamping their feet at every:. There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona said with conviction:. There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Then an impromptu square dance, the men devising original figures.
What merriment! Jimmy took his part with a will; this was seeing life, at least. They drank, however: it was Bohemian. There was a great clapping of hands when he sat down. It must have been a good speech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed loudly. What jovial fellows! What good company they were! The table was cleared. Villona returned quietly to his piano and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game after game, flinging themselves boldly into the adventure.
They drank the health of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the lack of an audience: the wit was flashing. Play ran very high and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not know exactly who was winning but he knew that he was losing. But it was his own fault for he frequently mistook his cards and the other men had to calculate his I. They were devils of fellows but he wished they would stop: it was getting late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle of Newport and then someone proposed one great game for a finish.
The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was a terrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink for luck. What excitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would lose, of course. How much had he written away? The men rose to their feet to play the last tricks, talking and gesticulating.
Routh won. They began then to gather in what they had won. Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers.
He knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was glad of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly. He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands, counting the beats of his temples.
The cabin door opened and he saw the Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light:. The grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets, shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur.
Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. One of them was just bringing a long monologue to a close. He was squat and ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and the narrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression break forth over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth.
Little jets of wheezing laughter followed one another out of his convulsed body. Once or twice he rearranged the light waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreador fashion.
His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily slung waterproof expressed youth. But his figure fell into rotundity at the waist, his hair was scant and grey and his face, when the waves of expression had passed over it, had a ravaged look.
When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed noiselessly for fully half a minute. Then he said:. He became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue was tired for he had been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset Street. Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his friends from forming any general policy against him.
He had a brave manner of coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding himself nimbly at the borders of the company until he was included in a round. He was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles. He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy.
No one knew how he achieved the stern task of living, but his name was vaguely associated with racing tissues. So we went for a walk round by the canal and she told me she was a slavey in a house in Baggot Street.
I put my arm round her and squeezed her a bit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment. We went out to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She told me she used to go with a dairyman It was fine, man.
And one night she brought me two bloody fine cigars—O, the real cheese, you know, that the old fellow used to smoke I was too hairy to tell her that. The swing of his burly body made his friend execute a few light skips from the path to the roadway and back again. He walked with his hands by his sides, holding himself erect and swaying his head from side to side. His head was large, globular and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his large round hat, set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown out of another.
He always stared straight before him as if he were on parade and, when he wished to gaze after someone in the street, it was necessary for him to move his body from the hips. At present he was about town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend was always ready to give him the hard word.
He was often to be seen walking with policemen in plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner side of all affairs and was fond of delivering final judgments. He spoke without listening to the speech of his companions. His conversation was mainly about himself: what he had said to such a person and what such a person had said to him and what he had said to settle the matter.
When he reported these dialogues he aspirated the first letter of his name after the manner of Florentines. Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. He watched earnestly the passing of the grey web of twilight across its face. At length he said:. A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his manner. To save himself he had the habit of leaving his flattery open to the interpretation of raillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind. I used to take them out, man, on the tram somewhere and pay the tram or take them to a band or a play at the theatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that way.
He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it. The recollection brightened his eyes. He too gazed at the pale disc of the moon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate. I saw her driving down Earl Street one night with two fellows with her on a car. As they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan skipped out into the road and peered up at the clock.
I always let her wait a bit. Corley swung his head to and fro as if to toss aside an insistent insect, and his brows gathered. Lenehan said no more. A little tact was necessary. His thoughts were running another way.
They walked along Nassau Street and then turned into Kildare Street. Not far from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the roadway, playing to a little ring of listeners. He plucked at the wires heedlessly, glancing quickly from time to time at the face of each new-comer and from time to time, wearily also, at the sky.
One hand played in the bass the melody of Silent, O Moyle , while the other hand careered in the treble after each group of notes. The notes of the air sounded deep and full.
The two young men walked up the street without speaking, the mournful music following them. Here the noise of trams, the lights and the crowd released them from their silence. At the corner of Hume Street a young woman was standing.
She wore a blue dress and a white sailor hat. She stood on the curbstone, swinging a sunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively. All I want is to have a look at her. A look at her? Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the road swaying his head from side to side. His bulk, his easy pace, and the solid sound of his boots had something of the conqueror in them. He approached the young woman and, without saluting, began at once to converse with her.
She swung her umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels. Once or twice when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and bent her head. Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he walked rapidly along beside the chains at some distance and crossed the road obliquely.
She had her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was held at the waist by a belt of black leather. The great silver buckle of her belt seemed to depress the centre of her body, catching the light stuff of her white blouse like a clip. She wore a short black jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons and a ragged black boa.
The ends of her tulle collarette had been carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers was pinned in her bosom, stems upwards. Frank rude health glowed in her face, on her fat red cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her features were blunt. She had broad nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay open in a contented leer, and two projecting front teeth.
As he passed Lenehan took off his cap and, after about ten seconds, Corley returned a salute to the air. This he did by raising his hand vaguely and pensively changing the angle of position of his hat. Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel where he halted and waited. After waiting for a little time he saw them coming towards him and, when they turned to the right, he followed them, stepping lightly in his white shoes, down one side of Merrion Square.
He kept the pair in view until he had seen them climbing the stairs of the Donnybrook tram; then he turned about and went back the way he had come. Now that he was alone his face looked older. The air which the harpist had played began to control his movements. His softly padded feet played the melody while his fingers swept a scale of variations idly along the railings after each group of notes.
Though his eyes took note of many elements of the crowd through which he passed they did so morosely. He found trivial all that was meant to charm him and did not answer the glances which invited him to be bold. He knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and to amuse, and his brain and throat were too dry for such a task.
The problem of how he could pass the hours till he met Corley again troubled him a little. He could think of no way of passing them but to keep on walking. He turned to the left when he came to the corner of Rutland Square and felt more at ease in the dark quiet street, the sombre look of which suited his mood. He paused at last before the window of a poor-looking shop over which the words Refreshment Bar were printed in white letters.
On the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions: Ginger Beer and Ginger Ale. A cut ham was exposed on a great blue dish while near it on a plate lay a segment of very light plum-pudding.
He eyed this food earnestly for some time and then, after glancing warily up and down the street, went into the shop quickly. He was hungry for, except some biscuits which he had asked two grudging curates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since breakfast-time.
He sat down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two work-girls and a mechanic. A slatternly girl waited on him. He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility for his entry had been followed by a pause of talk.
His face was heated. To appear natural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his elbows on the table. The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him point by point before resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. He ate his food greedily and found it so good that he made a note of the shop mentally.
This vision made him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He was tired of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and intrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a good job? Would he never have a home of his own? He thought how pleasant it would be to have a warm fire to sit by and a good dinner to sit down to.
He had walked the streets long enough with friends and with girls. He knew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls too. Experience had embittered his heart against the world. But all hope had not left him. He felt better after having eaten than he had felt before, less weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit.
He might yet be able to settle down in some snug corner and live happily if he could only come across some good simple-minded girl with a little of the ready. He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and went out of the shop to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street and walked along towards the City Hall.
Then he turned into Dame Street. He was glad that he could rest from all his walking. His friends asked him had he seen Corley and what was the latest. He replied that he had spent the day with Corley.
His friends talked very little. They looked vacantly after some figures in the crowd and sometimes made a critical remark. One said that he had seen Mac an hour before in Westmoreland Street.
The young man who had seen Mac in Westmoreland Street asked was it true that Mac had won a bit over a billiard match. He turned to the left at the City Markets and walked on into Grafton Street. The crowd of girls and young men had thinned and on his way up the street he heard many groups and couples bidding one another good-night. He went as far as the clock of the College of Surgeons: it was on the stroke of ten. He set off briskly along the northern side of the Green hurrying for fear Corley should return too soon.
When he reached the corner of Merrion Street he took his stand in the shadow of a lamp and brought out one of the cigarettes which he had reserved and lit it. He leaned against the lamp-post and kept his gaze fixed on the part from which he expected to see Corley and the young woman return. His mind became active again. He wondered had Corley managed it successfully.
He wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would leave it to the last. All at once the idea struck him that perhaps Corley had seen her home by another way and given him the slip. His eyes searched the street: there was no sign of them. Yet it was surely half-an-hour since he had seen the clock of the College of Surgeons. Would Corley do a thing like that? He lit his last cigarette and began to smoke it nervously. He strained his eyes as each tram stopped at the far corner of the square.
They must have gone home by another way. The paper of his cigarette broke and he flung it into the road with a curse. Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started with delight and, keeping close to his lamp-post, tried to read the result in their walk. They were walking quickly, the young woman taking quick short steps, while Corley kept beside her with his long stride. They did not seem to be speaking. An intimation of the result pricked him like the point of a sharp instrument. He knew Corley would fail; he knew it was no go.
They turned down Baggot Street and he followed them at once, taking the other footpath. When they stopped he stopped too. They talked for a few moments and then the young woman went down the steps into the area of a house. Corley remained standing at the edge of the path, a little distance from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then the hall-door was opened slowly and cautiously. A woman came running down the front steps and coughed.
Corley turned and went towards her. His broad figure hid hers from view for a few seconds and then she reappeared running up the steps. Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Why are you silent? Doctor Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch— Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand— They presently amend.
With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers! ROSS Sir, amen. ROSS Alas, poor country! Almost afraid to know itself. ROSS Why, well. ROSS Well too. The general cause? ROSS Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard.
I guess at it. What, man! ROSS I have said. All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! Heaven rest them now! Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave; Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments.
Receive what cheer you may: The night is long that never finds the day. Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman Doctor I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? Doctor A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching!
In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?
Gentlewoman That, sir, which I will not report after her. Gentlewoman Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. Doctor How came she by that light? Doctor You see, her eyes are open. Gentlewoman Ay, but their sense is shut. Doctor What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands. Gentlewoman It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.
Doctor Hark! What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Doctor Do you mark that? Doctor Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. Gentlewoman She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. Oh, oh, oh! Doctor What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. Gentlewoman I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body.
Doctor Well, well, well,— Gentlewoman Pray God it be, sir. Doctor This disease is beyond my practise: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. Doctor Even so? Exit Doctor Will she go now to bed? Gentlewoman Directly. Doctor Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets: More needs she the divine than the physician.
God, God forgive us all! Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night: My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight. I think, but dare not speak. Gentlewoman Good night, good doctor.
Drum and colours. Make we our march towards Birnam. Exeunt, marching. Was he not born of woman? Enter a Servant The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Servant Soldiers, sir.
What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! What soldiers, whey-face? Servant The English force, so please you. Exit Servant Seyton! Give me my armour. Send out more horses; skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour. How does your patient, doctor? Doctor Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.
Doctor Therein the patient Must minister to himself. Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff. Seyton, send out. Doctor, the thanes fly from me. Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again. Doctor Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something.
I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. Soldiers It shall be done. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must arbitrate: Towards which advance the war.
A cry of women within What is that noise? To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps 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! Enter a Messenger Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. Arm, arm, and out! If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! And show like those you are. Such a one Am I to fear, or none. Exit Alarums. Tyrant, show thy face!
There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! And more I beg not. And be these juggling fiends no more believed, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou opposed, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield. Alarums Retreat. ROSS Ay, on the front. Here comes newer comfort.
My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour named. Made it to the bottom? Let us know what you thought of the Macbeth PDF or indeed of the whole play if you read it!
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