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Macb. Good repose, the while?

Ban. Thanks, sir; the like to you!


Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is


She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.

Is this a dagger, which I see before me,


The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch


I have thee not; and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible

To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind; a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As that which now I draw.

Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.--There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs

Thus to mine eyes.-Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,

Towards his design

Moves like a ghost.-Thou sure and firm set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear

Thy very stones prate of my where-about,

And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.

[A Clock strikes Two.

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