LADY MACBETH MEDITATING MURDER

Lady Macbeth-Glamis thou art, and Cawdor and shalt be

What thou art promised:-Yet do I fear thy nature;

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great;

Art not without ambition, but without

The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst 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 wishest should be undone." Hie thee
hither,

That I may pour my spirits in thine ear:
And chastise with the valor of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal. What is your
tidings?

(Enter an Attendant)

Attendant-The king comes here to-night.
Lady Macbeth-Thou'rt mad to say it:
Is not thy master with him? who, wer't so,
Would have inform'd for preparation.

Attendant-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 Macbeth - Give him tending.

He brings great news. The raven himself is hoarse

[Exit Attendant.

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, come you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring
ministers,

Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief!

night,

Come, thick

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell! That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;

MACBETH'S MURDER SOLILOQUY.

Macbeth

-If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well

It were done quickly; if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch,
With his surcease, success!-that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here!-
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,-
We'd jump the life to come.- But, in these cases,
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor; this even-handed Justice
Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust:
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides this, Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked newborn babe,
Striding the blast; or heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,
And falls!*

- From "Macbeth, Act I., Scene 7.

MACBETH IN THE DAGGER VISION

Macbeth -Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:

I have thee not; and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind,—a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?

I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw!

Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use !
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still!
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before! There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes.- Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered Murder,
Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,

* And falls on the other," in the accepted texts.

William Shakespeare — Continued

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,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout;

And take the present horror from the time
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
[A bell rings.

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan! for it is a knell
That summons thee-to heaven or to hell!

- From "Macbeth," Act II., Scene 1.

OTHELLO'S DEFENSE BEFORE THE SENATE

Othello - Most potent, grave, and reveiend signiors,

My very noble and approved good masters,-
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my
speech,

And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnished tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic (For such proceeding I am charged withal), I won his daughter.

I do beseech you,

Send for the lady to the Sagittary,
And let her speak of me before her father:

If you do find me foul in her report,
The trust, the office, I do hold of you,
Not only take away, but let your sentence
Even fall upon my life. . . .

Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place.
And, till she come, as truly as to heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood,
So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love,
And she in mine.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortune,
That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances;

Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And portance. In my travel's history (Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak), such was the process;And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse; which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively. I did consent :
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;
She swore,- In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing
strange;

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful;

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That Heaven had made her such a man; she

thanked me;

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:
She loved me for the dangers I had passed;
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used;
Here comes the lady, let her witness it.

From Othello," Act I., Scene 3.

LEAR IN THE TEMPEST

Lear-Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage, blow!

You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!

You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once,
That make ungrateful man!

Rumble, thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout rain;
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness,
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
You owe me no subscription; why then let fall
Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man-
But yet I call you servile ministers,

That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high-engendered battles 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul!
Let the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,

That hast within thee undivulged crimes, Unwhipp'd of justice; hide thee, thou bloody hand.

Thou perjured, and thou simular man of virtue,
That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake,
That under covert and convenient seeming
Hast practiced on man's life. Close pent-up guilts
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace.-I am a man,
More sinn'd against, than sinning.

- From "King Lear," Act III., Scene 2.

"HAIL, HORRORS, HAIL!»

IS THIS the region, this the soil, the clime,
Said then the lost Archangel,- this the seat
That we must change for heav'n? this mournful
gloom

For that celestial light? be it so, since he,
Who now is Sov'reign, can dispose and bid
What shall be right: farthest from him is best,
Whom reason hath equal'd, force hath made su-
preme

Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells: hail horrors; hail
Infernal world; and thou profoundest hell
Receive thy new possessor; one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? here at least
We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell:
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heav'n.
But wherefore let we, then, our faithful friends,
Th' associates and copartners of our loss,
Lie thus astonish'd on th' oblivious pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy mansion; or once more
With rallied arms to try what may be yet
Regain'd in heav'n, or what more lost in hell?
-From "Paradise Lost," Book I.

SATAN TO THE FALLEN ANGELS ABJECT and lost lay these, covering the flood, Under amazement of their hideous change. He call'd so loud, that all the hollow deep Of hell resounded: Princes, Potentates, Warriors, the flow'r of heav'n, once yours, now lost,

If such astonishment as this can seize

Eternal spirits; or have ye chosen this place
After the toil of battle to repose
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find
To slumber here, as in the vales of heav'n?
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
To adore the conqueror ? who now beholds
Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood
With scatter'd arms and ensigns, till anon
His swift pursuers from heav'n gates discern
Th' advantage, and descending tread us down
Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf,-
Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n.

- From "Paradise Lost," Book I.

SATAN ADDRESSES THE COUNCIL OF War
HIGH on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand
Show'rs on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence; and, from despair
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue
Vain war with heav'n, and by success untaught
His proud imaginations thus display'd.

Powers and Dominions, Deities of heav'n,
For since no deep within her gulf can hold
Immortal vigor, though oppress'd and fall'n,
I give not heav'n for lost : from this descent
Celestial virtues rising will appear

More glorious and more dread, than from no fall,
And trust themselves to fear no second fate.
Me though just right and the fix'd laws of heav'n
Did first create your leader, next free choice,
With what besides, in council or in fight,
Hath been achieved of merit; yet this loss,
Thus far at least recover'd, hath much more
Establish'd in a safe unenvied throne,
Yielded with full consent. The happier state
In heav'n, which follows dignity, might draw
Envy from each inferior; but who here

John Milton - Continued

Will envy whom the highest place exposes
Foremost to stand against the Thund'rer's aim
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share
Of endless pain? Where there is then no good
For which to strive, no strife can grow up there
From faction; for none sure will claim in hell
Precedence; none, whose portion is so small
Of present pain, that with ambitious mind
Will covet more. With this advantage, then,
To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,
More than can be in heav'n, we now return
To claim our just inheritance of old,
Surer to prosper than prosperity

Could have assured us; and by what best way,
Whether of open war or covert guile,
We now debate: who can advise, may speak.
-From "Paradise Lost," Book II.

MOLOCH'S SPEECH FOR WAR

MY SENTENCE is for open war; of wiles,
More unexpert, I boast not; them let those
Contrive who need, or when they need; not now,
For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest,
Millions that stand in arms, and, longing, wait
The signal to ascend, sit lingering here
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling place
Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame,
The prison of his tyranny who reigns

By our delay? No,- let us rather choose,
Armed with hell-flames and fury, all at once
O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the Torturer; when to meet the noise
Of his almighty engine he shall hear
Infernal thunder; and, for lightning, see
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
Among his angels; and his Throne itself
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire,
His own invented torments. But, perhaps,
The way seems difficult and steep, to scale
With upright wing against a higher foe;
Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,
That in our proper motion we ascend
Up to our native seat; descent and fall
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear
Insulting, and pursued us through the deep,
With what compulsion and laborious flight
We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy, then; -
The event is feared: - should we again provoke
Our Stronger, some worse way his wrath may
find

To our destruction, if there be in hell

Fear to be worse destroyed. What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned,

In this abhorrèd deep, to utter woe,
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Must exercise us without hope of end,

The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorably and the torturing hour

Call us to penance? More destroyed than thus,

We should be quite abolished, and expire.
What fear we, then? What doubt we to incense
His utmost ire? which, to the height enraged,
Will either quite consume us, and reduce
To nothing this essential, - happier far
Than miserable to have eternal being; -
Or, if our substance be indeed divine,
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst,
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven,
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inaccessible, his fatal Throne:
Which, if not victory is yet revenge.

- From Paradise Lost, Book II.

BELIAL'S SPEECH OPPOSING WAR

I SHOULD be much for open war, O Peers,
As not behind in hate, if what was urged,—
Main reason to persuade immediate war,
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast
Ominous conjecture on the whole success :-
When he, who most excels in fact of arms,
In what he counsels, and in what excels,
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair
And utter dissolution, as the scope

Of all his aim, after some dire revenge! -
First, what revenge?-- The towers of heaven are
filled

With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft on the bordering deep
Encamp their legions; or, with obscure wing,
Scout far and wide into the realm of night,
Scorning surprise,- Or, could we break our way
By force, and, at our heels, all hell should rise,
With blackest insurrection, to confound
Heaven's purest light; yet our great Enemy,
All incorruptible would on his Throne
Sit unpolluted; and the ethereal mold,
Incapable of stain, would soon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope
Is flat despair; we must exasperate
The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage,
And that must end us; that must be our cure,—
To be no more.- Sad cure! - for who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Those thoughts that wander through eternity,-
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated night,
Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows,
Let this be good, whether our angry Foe
Can give it, or will ever? How he can,
Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure.
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire,
Belike through impotence, or unaware,
To give his enemies their wish, and end
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves

To punish endless?-« Wherefore cease we, then?
Say they, who counsel war; "we are decreed,"
Reserved, and destined to eternal woe;
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,
What can we suffer worse? » Is this, then, worst,
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?
What! when we fled amain, pursued and struck

John Milton-Continued

With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought
The deep to shelter us? this hell then seemed
A refuge from those wounds! or when we lay
Chained on the burning lake? that sure was worse.
What if the breath that kindled those grim fires,
Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage,
And plunge us in the flames? or, from above,
Should intermitted vengeance arm again
His red right hand to plague us? what, if all
Her stores were opened, and this firmament
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire,
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall
One day upon our heads? while we, perhaps
Designing or exhorting glorious war,
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled,
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey
Of racking whirlwinds; or forever sunk
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapped in chains;
There to converse with everlasting groans,
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved,
Ages of hopeless end?- this would be worse.
War, therefore, open or concealed, alike
My voice dissuades.

-From "Paradise Lost," Book II.

MILTON'S APOSTROPHE TO LIGHT

HAIL holy Light, offspring of heav'n firstborn
Or of th' Eternal co-eternal beam

May I express thee unblamed? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream,
Whose fountain who shall tell? before the sun,
Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing,
Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain'd
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness
borne,

With other notes, than to th' Orphean lyre,
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night,
Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to reascend,
Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sov'reign vital lamp; but thou
Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs,
Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,
That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit; nor sometimes forget
Those other two equal'd with me in fate,
So were I equal'd with them in renown,
Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,
And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old.

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal note: thus with the year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
Presented with a universal blank

Of nature's works to me expunged and razed,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou celestial Light
Shine inward, and the mind through all her

powers

Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.

-From "Paradise Lost," Book III.

SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN

O THOU that, with surpassing glory crown'd
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world, at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads, to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down,
Warring in heav'n against heav'n's matchless King.
Ah, wherefore! He deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks.
How due? yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high

I sdein'd subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burthensome, still paying, still to owe:
Forgetful what from him I still received,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged; but what burden then?
O had his powerful destiny ordain'd

Me some inferior angel, I had stood

Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition! Yet why not? some other power
As great might have aspired, and me though mean
Drawn to his part; but other powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst; whom hast thou then or what to ac-

cuse,

But heav'n's free love dealt equally to all? Be then his love accursed, since love or hate, To me alike, it deals eternal woe:

Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will