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Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Roffe, and Angus.

O worthiest Coutin!

The fin of my ingratitude e'en now
Was heavy on me. Thou'rt fo far before,
That swifteft wing of recompence is flow,
To overtake thee. 'Would, thou'dst less deserv'd,
That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been mine! only I've left to say,
More is thy due, than more than all can pay.
Mach. The service and the loyalty I owe,
In doing it, pays itself. Your Highnefs' part
Is to receive our duties; and our duties
Are to your Throne, and State, children and servants;
Which do but what they should, by doing every thing.
* Fief'd tow'rd your Life and honour.

King. Welcome hither:

I have begun to plant thee, and will labour
To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
Thou haft no less deserv'd, and must be known.
No less to have done so: let me enfold thee,
And hold thee to my heart.

Ban. There if I grow,
The harvest is your own.

King. My plenteous joys,

Wanton in fulness, feek to hide themselves
In drops of forrow. Sons, kinsmen, Thanes,
And you whose Places are the nearest, know,
We will establish our estate upon

Our eldest Malcolm, whom we name hereafter
The Prince of Cumberland: which honour must,

Not accompanied, invest him only;
But figns of Nobleness, like stars, shall shine
On all defervers. Hence to Inverness,

And bind us further to you.

[you;

Mach. The Rest is Labour, which is not us'd for

* Safe toward your love and honour.) Shoul be read thus, Fief'd tow'rd your life and honour. i. e. their Duties being Fiefd, or engaged to the fupport of, as feudal Tenants to their Lord.

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T'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful
The Hearing of my wife with your approach;
So humbly take my leave.

King. My worthy Cawdor!

Mach. The Prince of Cumberland!--that is a step,
On which I must fall down, or elfe o'er-leap, [Afide.
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires!
Let not Night see my black and deep defires;
The Eye wink at the hand! yet let that be,
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to fee. [Exit.
King. True, worthy Banquo; he is full so valiant;

And in his commendations I am fed;
It is a banquet to me. Let us after him,
Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome:
It is a peerless Kinfman.

SCENE

[Flourish. Exeunt.

VII.

Changes to an Apartment in Macbeth's Castle, at

Inverness.

Enter Lady Macbeth alone, with a letter.

Lady. THEY met me in the day of fuccefs; and I have learn'd by the perfected report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burnt in defire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanish'd. While I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missives from the King, who all-hail'd me, Thane of › Cawdor; by which title, before, these weyward fisters faluted me, and referr'd me to the coming on of time, with hail, King that shalt be! This have I thought good to deliver thee (my dearest Partner of Greatness) that thou might'st not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what Greatness is promis'd thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewel.

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor

and shalt be

What thou art promis'd. Yet do I fear thy nature;

It

It is too full o' th' milk of human kindness,
To catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be great;
Art not without ambition; but without

The illness should attend it. What thou would'st

highly,

That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou'dst have, great

Glamis,

That which cries, thus thou must do, if thou have it;
And That which rather thou dost fear to do,
Than wishes should be undone. Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,
And chastise with the valour of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden Round,
Which fate, and metaphyfic aid, doth feem
To have crown'd thee withal.

Enter Messenger.

What is your tidings?

Mes. The King comes here to night.

Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it.

Is not thy master with him? who, were't so,
Would have inform'd for preparation.

Mes. So please you, it is true: our Thane is coming.
One of my fellows had the speed of him;
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
Than would make up his message.

Lady. Give him tending;

He brings great news. The raven himself's not [Exit Mef.

hoarfe,

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, all you Spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
And fill me, from the crown to th' toe, top-full
Of direct cruelty; make thick my blood,
Stop up th' access and passage to Remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between

Th'

rt

Th' effect, and it. Come to my woman's breasts,

And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring mi

nisters!

Where-ever in your fightless substances

* You wait on nature's mischief-Come, thick night! ++And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife fee not the wound it makes'; Nor heav'n peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry, hold, hold!

Enter Macbeth.

[Embracing him.

> Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ign'rant present time, and I feel now
The future in the instant.

Mach. Dearest love,

Duncan comes here to night.

Lady. And when goes hence ?
Mach. To-morrow, as he purposes.
Lady. Oh, never

Shall Sun that morrow fee!

Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent

flower,

But he the ferpent under't. He, that's coming,
Must be provided for; and you shall put
This night's great business into my dispatch,
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give folely fovereign sway and masterdom.

Macb. We will fpeak further.

Lady. Only look up clear:

To alter favour, ever, is to fear.

Leave all the rest to me.

[Exeunt.

* You wait on nature's mischief-] Nature, for Human.

+ And pall thee] i. e. wrap thyself in a Pall.

SCENE

T

SCENE VIII.

Before Macbeth's Castle-Gate.

Hautboys and Torches.

Enter King, Malcolm,

Donalbain, Banquo, Lenox, Macduff, Roffe,

Angus, and Attendants.

HIS Castle hath

a pleasant feat; the air

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Unto our general sense.

Ban. This guest of fummer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his lov'd Mansionry that heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutting frieze, Buttrice, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendant bed, and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd, The air is delicate.

Enter Lady.

King. See, see! our honour'd Hostess ! The love that follows us, sometimes is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you, * How you should bid god-yeld us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble.

Lady. All our fervice

(In every point twice done, and then done double,)
Were poor and single business to contend
Against those honours deep and broad, wherewith
Your Majesty loads our. House. For those of old,
And the late dignities heap'd up to them,
We reft your Hermits.

King. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
We courst him at the heels, and had a purpose
To be his purveyor: but he rides well,
And his great love, (harp as his spur,) hath holp him

* How you should bid god-yeld us-] To bid any one god-yeld him, i. e. god-yield him, was the fame as God reward him.

To's

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