Then he relapses into himself again, and every word of his soliloquy shows the early birthdate of his guilt. He is all-powerful without strength; he wishes the end, but is irresolute as to the means; conscience distinctly warns him, and he lulls it imperfectly:—
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me
Without my stir.
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:
Presents fears Are less than horrible imaginings.
Warburton's note, and substitution of 'feats' for 'fears.'
Mercy on this most wilful ingenuity of blundering, which, nevertheless, was the very Warburton of Warburton—his inmost being! 'Fears,' here, are present fear-striking objects, 'terribilia adstantia'.