MACBETH.
.... Why do I yield to that suggestion,
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs?...
.... My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is,
But what is not.
.... Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus, with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design,
Moves like a ghost. (A bell rings.)
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.
What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes!
MACBETH.
One cried, God bless us! and Amen, the other;
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands
Listening their fear; I could not say, Amen,
When they did say, God bless us!
.... But wherefore could I not pronounce, Amen?
I had most need of blessing, and Amen
Stuck in my throat.