Mistress! Hello, mistress! I bet she’s fast asleep. Juliet! Hello my lamb! My lady! Darn it, you sleepyhead! Love! Madam! Sweetheart! Why don’t you answer, bride! Not even one word? Well get your rest now, sleep for a week. I bet you that the next night you won’t get much sleep with Count Paris. God forgive me, she’s sound asleep! I have to wake her up. Madam, madam, madam! Oh, let the count take you in your bed, I’m sure he’ll wake you up. Will you not wake up?
Are you going to leave? It’s not yet that close to daytime. That was the nightingale — not the morning lark — that just made that loud, piercing cry. The nightingale sings every night on that pomegranate tree over there. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
It was nine o’clock when I sent the nurse. She promised to return in half an hour. Maybe she couldn’t meet with him. No, that can’t be. She’s so slow! Love’s messengers should move as quick as thoughts, which are ten times as fast as the sunbeams that push shadows back over the hillsides. That’s why they say Venus, the goddess of love, travels in a chariot pulled by swift doves, and Cupid is always drawn with wings. The sun is at its highest point of the day's journey, and from nine to noon is three long hours, yet she hasn’t come back.
Where’s Potpan? He should be helping clear the table. Is he carrying plates? Is he washing plates?
When there’s only one person with good manners around here and he gets his hands dirty yelling at us too, it’s an unpleasant thing.
I won’t speak with her.
She’s insistent and very distressed. She deserves your pity.
What does she want?
Where are you taking me? Speak. I'll go no further.
Listen to me.
I will.
My time is almost up. Soon, I’ll have to return to those terrible fires.
Oh, poor ghost!
Don’t pity me, but listen seriously to what I have to tell you.
Speak. I’m eager to hear what you have to say.
Come, what is left of my friends, let's rest on this rock.
Statilius signaled us, my lord, but he hasn't come back. He's either been captured or killed.
Sit down, Clitus. Killing is the most likely, it seems to be in fashion. Listen, Clitus.
Hang our flags on the outer walls. Everyone’s screaming “The enemy’s coming!” Our castle’s more than strong enough to withstand a siege. They can camp there until they die of hunger and disease. If they were not reinforced with the soldiers who deserted me, I could have met them face to face and sent them packing back to England.
What’s that noise?
It’s women crying, my good lord.
What’s wrong, Hecate? You look angry.
Don’t I have good reason, you impudent hags? How dare you trade in riddles and fatal matters and make deals with Macbeth without consulting me or asking me to show our dark powers? Me, the source of all your magic and all our evil plans. And, to make things worse, everything you’ve done has been for a disobedient, spiteful man, full of rage. Like most people, he loves only himself and his own ambition.
