The Tragedy of Macbeth. Уильям Шекспир

MACBETH. We fail?

          But screw your courage to the sticking-place

          And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep-

          Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey

          Soundly invite him- his two chamberlains

          Will I with wine and wassail so convince

          That memory, the warder of the brain,

          Shall be a fume and the receipt of reason

          A limbeck only. When in swinish sleep

          Their drenched natures lie as in a death,

          What cannot you and I perform upon

          The unguarded Duncan? What not put upon

          His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt

          Of our great quell?

        MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only,

          For thy undaunted mettle should compose

          Nothing but males. Will it not be received,

          When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two

          Of his own chamber and used their very daggers,

          That they have done't?

        LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other,

          As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar

          Upon his death?

        MACBETH. I am settled and bend up

          Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.

          Away, and mock the time with fairest show:

          False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

Exeunt

      ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court of Macbeth's castle

      Enter Banquo and Fleance, bearing a torch before him.

        BANQUO. How goes the night, boy?

        FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.

        BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve.

        FLEANCE. I take't 'tis later, sir.

        BANQUO. Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heaven,

          Their candles are all out. Take thee that too.

          A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,

          And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers,

          Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature

          Gives way to in repose!

      Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch.

          Give me my sword.

          Who's there?

        MACBETH. A friend.

        BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The King's abed.

          He hath been in unusual pleasure and

          Sent forth great largess to your offices.

          This diamond he greets your wife withal,

          By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up

          In measureless content.

        MACBETH. Being unprepared,

          Our will became the servant to defect,

          Which else should free have wrought.

        BANQUO. All's well.

          I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:

          To you they have show'd some truth.

        MACBETH. I think not of them;

          Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,

          We would spend it in some words upon that business,

          If you would grant the time.

        BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure.

        MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis,

          It shall make honor for you.

        BANQUO. So I lose none

          In seeking to augment it, but still keep

          My bosom franchised and allegiance clear,

          I shall be counsel'd.

        MACBETH. Good repose the while.

        BANQUO. Thanks, sir, the like to you.

                                           Exeunt Banquo. and Fleance.

        MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,

          She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. Exit Servant.

          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-oppressed 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: