ROSS.
His absence, sir,
Lays blame upon his promise. Please’t your Highness
To grace us with your royal company?
MACBETH.
The table’s full.
LENNOX.
Here is a place reserv’d, sir.
MACBETH.
Where?
LENNOX.
Here, my good lord. What is’t that moves your Highness?
MACBETH.
Which of you have done this?
LORDS.
What, my good lord?
MACBETH.
Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
ROSS.
Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is not well.
LADY MACBETH.
Sit, worthy friends. My lord is often thus,
And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat;
The fit is momentary; upon a thought
He will again be well. If much you note him,
You shall offend him, and extend his passion.
Feed, and regard him not.—Are you a man?