Macbeth

Porter

Knock, knock, knock. Who's there? Faith, here's an 
English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French 
hose. Come in, tailor, here you may roast your goose.    

Porter

Therefore, much drink may be said to be an equivocator 
with lechery. It makes him, and it mars him; it sets
him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him;
makes him stand to, and not stand to — in conclusion, equivocates him
in a sleep and, giving him the lie, leaves him.
 [Macbeth castle, near the bedrooms. Enter Lady Macbeth]

Lady Macbeth

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;
What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark, peace.
 [Macbeth castle, near the bedrooms. Enter Lady Macbeth]

Lady Macbeth

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;
What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark, peace.
It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it.

Lady Macbeth

Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brain-sickly of things. Go get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.

Lady Macbeth

Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.

Macbeth

                                                  Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appalls me?
What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.

Macbeth

Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder —
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch — thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,

Macbeth

Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder —
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch — thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,

Pages