Module 4: "Macbeth" by William Shakespeare, Act 5

A great perturbation in nature, to receive at
once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of
watching.

Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper.

This is her very guise and,
upon my life, fast asleep.

The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is
she now? What, will these hands ne’er be clean? No
more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that. You mar all
with this starting.

For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file
Of all the gentry. There is Siward's son,
And many unrough youths that even now
Protest their first of manhood.

Now does he feel
His secret murders sticking on his hands.
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach.

Then fly, false
thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures.

I have lived long enough. My way of life
Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have, but, in their stead
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare
not.

I have lived long enough. My way of life
Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have, but, in their stead
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare
not.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Throw physic to the dogs. I'll none of it.

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.—

I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane.

Let every soldier hew him down a bough
And bear ’t before him. Thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host and make discovery
Err in report of us.

Let every soldier hew him down a bough
And bear ’t before him. Thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host and make discovery
Err in report of us.

Let every soldier hew him down a bough
And bear ’t before him. 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.

Let our just censures
Attend the true event, and put we on
Industrious soldiership.

Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate:
Towards which advance the war.

I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
The time has been my senses would have cooled
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in ’t.

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.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

If this which he avouches does appear,
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.

Ring the alarum bell!—Blow wind, come wrack,
At least we’ll die with harness on our back.

Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath,
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.

Thou liest, abhorrèd tyrant. With my sword
I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st.

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 charmèd life, which must not yield
To one of woman born.

Accursèd be that tongue that tells me so,
For it hath cowed my better part of man!

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.

I will not yield,
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet
And to be baited with the rabble's curse.

Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt.
He only lived but till he was a man,
The which no sooner had his prowess confirmed
In the unshrinking station where he fought,
But like a man he died.

Hail, King! for so thou art. Behold where stands
Th’ usurper’s cursèd head. The time is free.
I see thee compassed with thy kingdom’s pearl,
That speak my salutation in their minds,
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine.
Hail, King of Scotland!

Hail, King! for so thou art. Behold where stands
Th’ usurper’s cursèd head. The time is free.
I see thee compassed with thy kingdom’s pearl,
That speak my salutation in their minds,
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine.
Hail, King of Scotland!