Lady. Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!
Doct. What a sight is there? The heart is sorely charg’d!
Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body.
Doct. Well, well, well,—
Gent. Pray God, it be, sir.
Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.
Lady. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out of his grave.
Doct. Even so?
Lady. To bed, to bed; there’s knocking at the gate.—Come, come, come, come, give me your hand; what’s done cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to bed. (Exit Lady.
Doct. Will she go now to bed?