BULLER.
Do, sir, let him perpend.
NORTH.
Banquo fears "Thou play'dst most foully for it;" he goes no farther—not a word of any tyranny done. All the style of an incipient, dangerous Rule—clouds, but no red rain yet. And I need not point out to you, Talboys, who carry Shakspeare unnecessarily in a secret pocket of that strange Sporting Jacket, which the more I look at it the greater is my wonder—that Macbeth's behaviour at the Banquet, on seeing Banquo nodding at him from his own stool, proves him to have been then young in blood.
"My strange and self-abuse
Is the initiate fear that wants hard use.
We are yet but young in deed."
He had a week or two before committed a first-rate murder, Duncan's—that night he had, by hired hands, got a second-rate job done, Banquo's—and the day following he gave orders for a bloody business on a more extended scale, the Macduffs. But nothing here the least like Rosse's, or Macduff's, or Malcolm's Picture of Scotland—during those few weeks. For Shakspeare forgot what the true time was—his own time—the short time; and introduced long time at the same time—why, he himself no doubt knew—and you no doubt, Talboys, know also—and will you have the goodness to tell the "why" to the Tent?
TALBOYS.
In ten minutes. Are you done?
NORTH.
Not quite. Meanwhile—Two Clocks are going at once—which of the two gives the true time of Day?