Lost in the prospective of his guilt, he turns round alarmed lest others may suspect what is passing in his own mind, and instantly vents the lie of ambition:—
“My dull brain was wrought
With things forgotten;”—
and immediately after pours forth the promising courtesies of a usurper in intention:—
... “Kind gentlemen, your pains
Are register'd where every day I turn
The leaf to read them.”
Ib. Macbeth's speech:—
... “Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.”