"The Tragedy of Macbeth" by William Shakespeare, Act V

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!