Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be. What thou art promis'd: Yet do I fear thy nature; To catch the nearest way: Thou would'st be great; The illness should attend it. What thou would'st highly, That would'st thou holily; would'st not play false, And yet would'st wrongly win: thou'd'st have, great Glamis, That which cries, Thus thou must do, if thou have it: What is your tidings? Enter an Attendant. Atten. The king comes here to-night. Lady M. Thou'rt mad to say it: Is not thy master with him? who, wer't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. Atten. 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. 4 the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid-] The crown to which fate destines thee, and which preternatural agents endeavour to bestow upon thee. The golden round is the diadem. Metaphysical, which Dr. Warburton has justly observed, means something supernatural, seems, in our author's time, to have had no other meaning. In the English Dictionary, by H. C. 1655, Metaphysicks are thus explained; "Supernatural arts." Lady M. Give him tending, He brings great news. The raven himself is hoarse, 5 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes; 5 The raven himself is hoarse,] The following is, in my opinion, the sense of this passage: Give him tending; the news he brings are worth the speed that made him lose his breath. [Exit Attendant.] 'Tis certain now the raven himself is spent, is hoarse by croaking this very message, the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Lady Macbeth (for she was not yet unsexed) was likelier to be deterred from her design than encouraged in it by the supposed thought that the message and the prophecy (though equally secrets to the messenger and the raven) had deprived the one of speech, and added harshness to the other's note. Unless we absurdly suppose the messenger acquainted with the hidden import of his message, speed alone had intercepted his breath, as repetition the raven's voice; though the lady considered both as organs of that destiny which hurried Duncan into her meshes. FUSELI. 6 - mortal thoughts,] This expression signifies not the thoughts of mortals, but murderous, deadly, or destructive designs. 7 remorse ;] Remorse, in ancient language, signifies pity. s And pall thee—] i. e. wrap thyself in a pall. To pall, however, in the present instance, (as Mr. Douce observes,) may simply mean to wrap, to invest. 9 That my keen knife-] The word knife, which at present has a familiar undignified meaning, was anciently used to express a sword or dagger. Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry, Hold, hold! Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor !1 Enter MACBETH. Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. Macb. Duncan comes here to-night. Lady M. Lady M. My dearest love, And when goes hence? O, never Macb. To-morrow, -as he purposes. Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men May read strange matters 2; - To beguile the time, 1 Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!] Shakspeare has supported the character of Lady Macbeth by repeated efforts, and never omits any opportunity of adding a trait of ferocity, or a mark of the want of human feelings to this monster of his own creation. The softer passions are more obliterated in her than in her husband, in proportion as her ambition is greater. She meets him here on his arrival from an expedition of danger, with such a salutation as would have become one of his friends or vassals; a salutation apparently fitted rather to raise his thoughts to a level with her own purposes, than to testify her joy at his return, or manifest an attachment to his person: nor does any sentiment expressive of love or softness fall from her throughout the play. While Macbeth himself, amidst the horrors of his guilt, still retains a character less fiend-like than that of his queen, talks to her with a degree of tenderness, and pours his complaints and fears into her bosom, accompanied with terms of endearment. STEEVENS. 2 Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men May read, &c.] That is, thy looks are such as will awaken men's curiosity, excite their attention, and make room for suspicion. Which shall to all our nights and days to come Macb. We will speak further. Lady M. Only look up clear; To alter favour ever is to fear:3 Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt! SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. Hautboys. Servants of MACBETH attending. Enter DUNCAN, MALCOLM, DONALBAIN, BANQUO, LENOX, MACDUFF, ROSSE, ANGUS, and Attendants. Dun. This castle hath a pleasant seat1; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. Ban. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, 3 To alter favour ever is to fear:] Favour is-look, countenance. + This castle hath a pleasant seat;] This short dialogue between Duncan and Banquo, whilst they are approaching the gates of Macbeth's castle, has always appeared to me a striking instance of what in painting is termed repose. Their conversation very naturally turns upon the beauty of its situation, and the pleasantness of the air; and Banquo observing the martlets' nests in every recess of the cornice, remarks, that where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is delicate. The subject of this quiet and easy conversation gives that repose so necessary to the mind after the tumultuous bustle of the preceding scenes, and perfectly contrasts the scene of horror that immediately succeeds. It seems as if Shakspeare asked himself, What is a prince likely to say to his attendants on such an occasion? Whereas the modern writers seem, on the contrary, to be always searching for new thoughts, such as would never occur to men in the situation which is represented. This also is frequently the practice of Homer, who, from the midst of battles and horrors, relieves and refreshes the mind of the reader, by introducing some quiet rural image, or picture of familiar domestick life. Sir J, REYNOLDS. By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath, Dun. Enter Lady МАСВЕТН. See, see! our honour'd hostess ! The love that follows us, sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you, How you shall bid God yield us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. Lady M. All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, "Buttress, nor coin of vantage, but this bird Mr. Malone reads "Hath made his pendant bed, and procreant cradle : 6 The love that follows us, sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you, How you shall bid God yield us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble.] This passage is undoubtedly obscure, and the following is the best explication of it I am able to offer: Marks of respect, importunately shown, are sometimes troublesome, though we are still bound to be grateful for them, as indications of sincere attachment. If you pray for us on account of the trouble we create in your house, and thank us for the molestations we bring with us, it must be on such a principle. Herein I teach you that the inconvenience you suffer, is the result of our affection; and that you are therefore to pray for us, or thank us, only as far as prayers or thanks can be deserved for kindnesses that fatigue, and honours that oppress. You are, in short, to make your acknowledgments for intended respect and love, however irksome our present mode of expressing them may have proved. To bid is here used in the Saxon sense to pray. STEEVENS. |