[01/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

Updated Branches:
  refs/heads/master c938f5e18 -> fce2b23b8


http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/urls.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-test/src/main/resources/urls.txt b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/urls.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..827e711
--- /dev/null
+++ b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/urls.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+www.A.com	www.B.com
+www.A.com	www.C.com
+www.A.com	www.D.com
+www.A.com	www.E.com
+www.B.com	www.D.com
+www.B.com	www.E.com
+www.C.com	www.D.com
+www.D.com	www.B.com
+www.E.com	www.A.com
+www.F.com	www.B.com
+www.F.com	www.C.com

[09/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/urls.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/urls.txt b/crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/urls.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 827e711..0000000
--- a/crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/urls.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,11 +0,0 @@
-www.A.com	www.B.com
-www.A.com	www.C.com
-www.A.com	www.D.com
-www.A.com	www.E.com
-www.B.com	www.D.com
-www.B.com	www.E.com
-www.C.com	www.D.com
-www.D.com	www.B.com
-www.E.com	www.A.com
-www.F.com	www.B.com
-www.F.com	www.C.com

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/customers.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/customers.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/customers.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 98f3f3d..0000000
--- a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/customers.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,4 +0,0 @@
-111|John Doe
-222|Jane Doe
-333|Someone Else
-444|Has No Orders
\ No newline at end of file

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/docs.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/docs.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/docs.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 90a3f65..0000000
--- a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/docs.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,6 +0,0 @@
-A	this doc has this text
-A	and this text as well
-A	but also this
-B	this doc has some text
-B	but not as much as the last
-B	doc

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/letters.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/letters.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/letters.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 916bfc9..0000000
--- a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/letters.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,2 +0,0 @@
-a
-bb
\ No newline at end of file

[19/19] git commit: CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test


Project: http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/repo
Commit: http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/commit/fce2b23b
Tree: http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/tree/fce2b23b
Diff: http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/diff/fce2b23b

Branch: refs/heads/master
Commit: fce2b23b81e9a1bbe306955f3a9a8af8e3627e3f
Parents: c938f5e
Author: Chao Shi <ch...@apache.org>
Authored: Tue Feb 11 23:22:42 2014 +0800
Committer: Chao Shi <ch...@apache.org>
Committed: Thu Feb 13 03:25:20 2014 +0800

----------------------------------------------------------------------
 crunch-contrib/src/it/resources/shakes.txt   |  3667 ---
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/customers.txt   |     4 -
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/docs.txt        |     6 -
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/letters.txt     |     2 -
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/maugham.txt     | 29112 --------------------
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/orders.txt      |     5 -
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/set1.txt        |     4 -
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/set2.txt        |     3 -
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/shakes.txt      |  3667 ---
 crunch-core/src/it/resources/urls.txt        |    11 -
 crunch-hbase/src/it/resources/shakes.txt     |  3667 ---
 crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/maugham.txt  | 29112 --------------------
 crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/shakes.txt   |  3667 ---
 crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/urls.txt     |    11 -
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/customers.txt  |     4 -
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/docs.txt       |     6 -
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/letters.txt    |     2 -
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/maugham.txt    | 29112 --------------------
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/orders.txt     |     5 -
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set1.txt       |     4 -
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set2.txt       |     3 -
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/shakes.txt     |  3667 ---
 crunch-spark/src/it/resources/urls.txt       |    11 -
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/customers.txt |     4 +
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/docs.txt      |     6 +
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/letters.txt   |     2 +
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/maugham.txt   | 29112 ++++++++++++++++++++
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/orders.txt    |     5 +
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/set1.txt      |     4 +
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/set2.txt      |     3 +
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/shakes.txt    |  3667 +++
 crunch-test/src/main/resources/urls.txt      |    11 +
 32 files changed, 32814 insertions(+), 105752 deletions(-)
----------------------------------------------------------------------

[11/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/maugham.txt b/crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 16c45e8..0000000
--- a/crunch-scrunch/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,29112 +0,0 @@
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
-
-
-Title: Of Human Bondage
-
-Author: W. Somerset Maugham
-
-Release Date: May 6, 2008 [EBook #351]
-
-Language: English
-
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OF HUMAN BONDAGE ***
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-OF HUMAN BONDAGE
-
-
-BY
-
-W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
-
-
-
-
-I
-
-The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a
-rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room
-in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced
-mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and
-went to the child's bed.
-
-"Wake up, Philip," she said.
-
-She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him
-downstairs. He was only half awake.
-
-"Your mother wants you," she said.
-
-She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over
-to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out
-her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had
-been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt
-the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer
-to herself.
-
-"Are you sleepy, darling?" she said.
-
-Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great
-distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very
-happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to
-make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he
-kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep.
-The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side.
-
-"Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned.
-
-The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would
-not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again;
-and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held
-the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly
-passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob.
-
-"What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired."
-
-She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
-The doctor bent down.
-
-"Let me take him."
-
-She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor
-handed him back to his nurse.
-
-"You'd better put him back in his own bed."
-
-"Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His
-mother sobbed now broken-heartedly.
-
-"What will happen to him, poor child?"
-
-The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the
-crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room,
-upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted
-the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the
-woman guessed what he was doing.
-
-"Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse.
-
-"Another boy."
-
-The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She
-approached the bed.
-
-"Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the
-doctor felt his patient's pulse once more.
-
-"I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call
-again after breakfast."
-
-"I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse.
-
-They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped.
-
-"You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?"
-
-"Yes, sir."
-
-"D'you know at what time he'll be here?"
-
-"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram."
-
-"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way."
-
-"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir."
-
-"Who's she?"
-
-"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?"
-
-The doctor shook his head.
-
-
-
-II
-
-It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room
-at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to
-amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each
-of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each
-arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout
-chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he
-could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the
-curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of
-buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open,
-he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand
-piled away a chair and the cushions fell down.
-
-"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you."
-
-"Hulloa, Emma!" he said.
-
-The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions,
-and put them back in their places.
-
-"Am I to come home?" he asked.
-
-"Yes, I've come to fetch you."
-
-"You've got a new dress on."
-
-It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of
-black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had
-three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She
-hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could
-not give the answer she had prepared.
-
-"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length.
-
-"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?"
-
-Now she was ready.
-
-"Your mamma is quite well and happy."
-
-"Oh, I am glad."
-
-"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not
-know what she meant.
-
-"Why not?"
-
-"Your mamma's in heaven."
-
-She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried
-too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features.
-She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in
-London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her
-emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the
-pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite
-unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers.
-But in a little while she pulled herself together.
-
-"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say
-good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home."
-
-"I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide
-his tears.
-
-"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat."
-
-He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall.
-He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He
-paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends,
-and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would
-be sorry for him.
-
-"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin."
-
-"I think you'd better," said Emma.
-
-"Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said.
-
-He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door
-and walked in. He heard her speak.
-
-"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss."
-
-There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in.
-Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In
-those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much
-gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an
-elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies,
-whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously.
-
-"My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms.
-
-She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to
-luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak.
-
-"I've got to go home," said Philip, at last.
-
-He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again.
-Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange
-ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission.
-Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would
-have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they
-expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out
-of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the
-basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta
-Watkin's voice.
-
-"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's
-dead."
-
-"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I
-knew it would upset you."
-
-Then one of the strangers spoke.
-
-"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world.
-I see he limps."
-
-"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother."
-
-Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where
-to go.
-
-
-
-III
-
-
-When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary,
-respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street,
-Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing
-letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which
-had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the
-hall-table.
-
-"Here's Master Philip," said Emma.
-
-Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on
-second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of
-somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair,
-worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was
-clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine
-that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a
-gold cross.
-
-"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you
-like that?"
-
-Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after
-an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an
-attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt.
-
-"Yes."
-
-"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother."
-
-The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer.
-
-"Your dear mother left you in my charge."
-
-Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that
-his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way
-thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if
-her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over
-fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was
-childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a
-small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his
-sister-in-law.
-
-"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said.
-
-"With Emma?"
-
-The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.
-
-"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey.
-
-"But I want Emma to come with me."
-
-Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey
-looked at them helplessly.
-
-"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment."
-
-"Very good, sir."
-
-Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took
-the boy on his knee and put his arm round him.
-
-"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must
-see about sending you to school."
-
-"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated.
-
-"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and
-I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend."
-
-Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's
-father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments
-suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden
-death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more
-than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house
-in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in
-delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and
-accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her
-furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a
-furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience
-till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of
-money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered
-circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way
-and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than
-two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn
-his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was
-sobbing still.
-
-"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console
-the child better than anyone.
-
-Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped
-him.
-
-"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon,
-and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all
-your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by
-you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be
-sold."
-
-The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he
-turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was
-a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially
-seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered
-from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead
-woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon
-herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have
-dismissed her.
-
-But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though
-his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own
-son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft
-words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that
-she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was
-going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike
-on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and
-there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his
-tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey.
-Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped
-her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to
-gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily.
-
-But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in
-which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered
-then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his
-father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take.
-
-"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy."
-
-"Uncle William's there."
-
-"Never mind that. They're your own things now."
-
-Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left
-the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short
-a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him.
-It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy.
-But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the
-landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his
-mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately
-upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and
-listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that
-it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat
-uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the
-handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from
-hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold
-for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened
-now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were
-drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark.
-On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a
-little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the
-chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when
-his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something
-curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were
-going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a
-night-dress.
-
-Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took
-as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They
-smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers,
-filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender
-bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The
-strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had
-just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come
-upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on
-his lips.
-
-It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply
-because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on
-the pillow. He lay there quite still.
-
-
-
-IV
-
-
-Philip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused
-him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was
-sixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set
-out to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than
-five minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the
-gate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and
-it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it.
-They walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by
-visitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went
-up to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a
-side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for
-beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a
-red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical
-style. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room
-windows were gothic.
-
-Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the
-drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she
-went to the door.
-
-"There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and give her
-a kiss."
-
-Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then
-stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her
-husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale
-blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion
-of her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold
-chain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice.
-
-"Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her
-husband.
-
-"I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew.
-
-"It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the child.
-
-"No. I always walk."
-
-He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to
-come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow
-tiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An
-imposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a
-peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church
-was reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with
-emblems of the Four Evangelists.
-
-"I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your
-journey," said Mrs. Carey.
-
-It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if
-the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if
-Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid,
-didn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they
-must keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the
-dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not
-get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on
-Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the
-study so that he could write his sermon.
-
-Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that
-looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large
-tree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it
-was possible to climb quite high up it.
-
-"A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be frightened
-at sleeping alone?"
-
-"Oh, no."
-
-On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs.
-Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some
-uncertainty.
-
-"Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?"
-
-"I can wash myself," he answered firmly.
-
-"Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said Mrs. Carey.
-
-She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should
-come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat
-him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found
-herself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be
-noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys.
-Mrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back
-and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could
-pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for
-tea.
-
-The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of
-it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle;
-and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it.
-In one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs
-covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and
-was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife.
-Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that
-was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair
-had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it.
-
-Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out
-to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and
-polished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was
-much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the
-Curate.
-
-"What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey.
-
-"I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your
-journey."
-
-Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She
-seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year,
-and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two,
-he went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually
-managed to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for
-the exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in
-the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for
-a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do.
-
-"I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann.
-
-She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book
-from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on
-Philip's chair.
-
-"Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked
-tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?"
-
-Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant.
-
-"I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top,
-Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men
-like ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship."
-
-"I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa.
-
-Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut
-the top off his egg.
-
-"There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if you like."
-
-Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so
-took what he could.
-
-"How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the Vicar.
-
-"Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day."
-
-"How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle.
-
-"Very much, thank you."
-
-"You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon."
-
-Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be
-fortified for the evening service.
-
-
-
-V
-
-
-Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by
-fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a
-good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father
-had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant
-career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began
-to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson
-set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription,
-he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey,
-thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with
-mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to
-give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by
-a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a
-patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations,
-but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding.
-The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with
-reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great
-beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a
-hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers
-among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he
-deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he
-told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept
-hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the
-dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at
-luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the
-vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar
-felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume
-the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was
-practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends
-now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it
-was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to
-itself: she had no more idea of money than a child.
-
-When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which
-seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the
-breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the
-late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the
-parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed
-the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than
-usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was
-thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.
-There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember.
-The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this
-was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent,
-and he could not imagine who had ordered them.
-
-"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked.
-
-"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin
-scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember
-me by when he grows up."
-
-Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear
-treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him.
-
-"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said
-Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."
-
-He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to
-be taken.
-
-One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better
-than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had
-taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:
-suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear
-seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was
-expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be
-expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow
-up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately,
-because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had
-no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years
-before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He
-could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called
-her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,
-and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to
-struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had
-been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the
-soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the
-ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when
-she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never
-do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep
-rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt,
-but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of
-a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself
-in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had
-never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her
-beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not
-afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired;
-and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas
-before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped
-downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove
-to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to
-ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant,
-seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she
-insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove
-back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with
-all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.
-
-She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran
-down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her
-room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and
-the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting
-anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and
-reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for,
-and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She
-fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained
-unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched
-her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day,
-when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of
-her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither
-of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they
-were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in
-his memory.
-
-"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up."
-
-"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would
-have done."
-
-
-
-VI
-
-
-One day was very like another at the vicarage.
-
-Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it
-with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took
-it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then
-it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it
-late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was
-making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the
-Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to
-do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing
-village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank,
-the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round
-the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor
-people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs.
-Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to
-the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this
-fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had
-never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street:
-he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent
-their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for
-dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the
-town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers;
-Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the
-difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to
-church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with
-both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of
-going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher
-who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come
-to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was
-very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity
-further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat
-was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often
-stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager,
-who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man
-with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip
-he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats
-for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish
-church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led
-was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit
-from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the
-Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no
-hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory
-consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be
-saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really
-seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish.
-Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care
-he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey
-advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his
-fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in
-the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged
-himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back.
-
-Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey
-still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate
-had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and
-Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission
-Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few
-words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the
-chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views
-upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a
-churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He
-reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was
-the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to
-recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics,
-and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had
-enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To
-this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his
-purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were
-not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political
-meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and
-for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable
-place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was
-little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in
-a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and
-that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His
-sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of
-the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby
-linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in
-his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts
-of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first
-moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in
-life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they
-met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put
-the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her
-brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these
-gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of
-anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but
-they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held
-at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey
-and Josiah Graves both made speeches.
-
-When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally
-went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies
-talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr.
-Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least
-five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in
-the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with
-the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never
-opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had
-a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with
-banking.
-
-Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they
-continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a
-side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt
-(and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and
-nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in
-on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood
-for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who
-knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for
-flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They
-looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram
-the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home.
-
-Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it
-consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and
-Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the
-afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by
-his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of
-French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany
-the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used
-to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs
-by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was
-asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage.
-There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their
-parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr.
-Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of
-Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the
-Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony.
-
-But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset
-them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They
-preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon.
-Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like
-losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary
-Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to
-clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a
-little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat.
-Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then
-Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and
-after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress
-himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs.
-Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She
-then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey
-continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got
-up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed.
-
-When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening
-he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water,
-since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two
-persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in
-Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary
-Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to
-begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday,
-because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired
-after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for
-the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for
-Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night:
-what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't
-know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday
-night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey
-was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But
-the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's
-Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after
-eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they
-might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to
-bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said
-she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he
-should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the
-Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly
-washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night.
-
-
-
-VII
-
-
-Sunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say
-that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week.
-
-The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a
-poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at
-the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she
-got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her
-husband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers
-were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After
-breakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip
-was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a
-marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was
-thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was
-regulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and
-on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were
-most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not
-so fine that people wanted to hurry away.
-
-Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood
-in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten
-the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took
-several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a
-voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his
-face as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the
-arena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife
-could not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black
-satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time,
-but on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then,
-in conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink
-rose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he
-said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed
-as a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage
-when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew
-that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house,
-and no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary
-Ann, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She
-hurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of
-sherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed
-in the carriage, and they set off.
-
-The fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw.
-They drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch
-cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and
-while the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled
-themselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the
-sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip
-threepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the
-service began.
-
-Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a
-gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained
-interest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the
-plate.
-
-When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few
-words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went
-to the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their
-surplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and
-told him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it
-seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved
-him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies,
-sixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one
-put in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes
-there was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was
-always a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But
-Miss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that
-the stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the
-drive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his
-mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates
-Society. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey
-remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and
-somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the
-vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner.
-
-When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay
-down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks.
-
-They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for
-evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she
-read the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the
-evening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the
-darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church
-with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very
-friendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew
-used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more
-easily for the feeling of protection.
-
-They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for
-him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one
-the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully
-tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann
-undressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to
-love her.
-
-
-
-VIII
-
-
-Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his
-loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother
-lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of
-thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at
-eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it;
-but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her
-master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off
-Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories
-of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the
-harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One
-evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was
-afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil
-communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who
-were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable
-in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took
-his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like
-disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be
-untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he
-fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he
-went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her
-heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his
-affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her
-demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes
-she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she
-went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann
-explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she
-heard, and she smiled with constraint.
-
-"He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when she
-returned to her sewing.
-
-"One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into
-shape."
-
-On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred.
-Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the
-drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah
-Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which
-the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in
-Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said
-they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had
-been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the
-Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for
-the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate
-than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his
-secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the
-line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a
-Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they
-were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best,
-the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think
-that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he
-had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often
-related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays
-upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was
-sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to
-preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having
-decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an
-election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue
-letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to
-prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his
-mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the
-candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or
-twice irritably.
-
-Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his
-face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the
-dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around
-him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation
-had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin.
-
-"What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed
-to play games on Sunday."
-
-Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit
-was, flushed deeply.
-
-"I always used to play at home," he answered.
-
-"I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as
-that."
-
-Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be
-supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not
-answer.
-
-"Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you
-suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight,
-and how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws
-in the afternoon?"
-
-Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him
-while Philip did so.
-
-"You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you're
-causing your poor mother in heaven."
-
-Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to
-letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent
-the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to
-turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage
-was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one
-saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green
-fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip
-felt infinitely unhappy.
-
-Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the
-stairs.
-
-"Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked.
-
-"No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a
-wink."
-
-This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own
-thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made
-a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept
-before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar
-narrated the facts.
-
-"He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished.
-
-"Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the
-child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be.
-
-Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not
-know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any
-expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined
-to cry, but no word would issue from his lips.
-
-"You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey.
-
-Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously
-now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his
-uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got
-his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said:
-
-"I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in
-a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God."
-
-Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was
-placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his
-uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual
-went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip.
-
-"Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and
-then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening."
-
-She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room.
-
-"Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the
-hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?"
-
-Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would
-not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with
-him.
-
-"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked
-helplessly.
-
-Philip broke his silence at last.
-
-"I want to be left alone," he said.
-
-"Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your
-uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?"
-
-"I hate you. I wish you was dead."
-
-Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a
-start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as
-she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her
-eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even
-though it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could
-scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached
-so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her
-cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief,
-and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was
-crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her
-silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her
-without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin,
-shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little
-boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart
-would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt
-that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new
-love because he had made her suffer.
-
-
-
-IX
-
-
-On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go
-into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were
-conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip
-asked:
-
-"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?"
-
-"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?"
-
-"I can't sit still till tea-time."
-
-Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could
-not suggest that Philip should go into the garden.
-
-"I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day."
-
-He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and
-turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted.
-
-"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in
-to tea you shall have the top of my egg."
-
-Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had
-bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him.
-
-"The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey.
-
-He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful
-blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened
-his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the
-sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought
-him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his
-feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes,
-and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The
-Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep.
-He snored softly.
-
-It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the
-words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the
-works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal
-life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began
-saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him,
-and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more
-than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering:
-there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long
-twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in
-the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside
-his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by
-tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not
-try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory.
-
-Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so
-wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his
-collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle.
-His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in
-the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about
-to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a
-little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door.
-She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and
-then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had
-put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was
-sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders.
-Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the
-child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now
-she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his
-fillings: he hid himself to weep.
-
-Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she
-burst into the drawing-room.
-
-"William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would
-break."
-
-Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs.
-
-"What's he got to cry about?"
-
-"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you
-think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do."
-
-Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless.
-
-"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more
-than ten lines."
-
-"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William?
-There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in
-that."
-
-"Very well, I don't mind."
-
-Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only
-passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two
-in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty
-volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading,
-but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were
-illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them
-he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon
-with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some
-battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel
-engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine.
-She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to
-compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him
-in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went
-in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands
-so that she might not see he had been crying.
-
-"Do you know the collect yet?" she said.
-
-He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his
-voice. She was oddly embarrassed.
-
-"I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp.
-
-"Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture
-books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them
-together."
-
-Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so
-that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him.
-
-"Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born."
-
-She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets.
-In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting
-two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if
-he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads.
-
-"Read what it says," he asked.
-
-Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic
-narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but
-fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that
-followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted
-her.
-
-"I want to see another picture."
-
-When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth.
-Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations.
-It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for
-tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart;
-he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the
-book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with
-her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this
-eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of
-Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed
-itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more
-books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he
-kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip
-took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to
-read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it
-was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys.
-
-Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps
-because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he
-found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart
-beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but
-there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his
-imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a
-Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic
-vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored
-at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the
-darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat
-went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last
-to some strange mansion.
-
-One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of
-The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the
-illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that
-dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again
-and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him.
-He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner.
-Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of
-reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge
-from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating
-for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day
-a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other
-things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he
-occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble
-themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know
-them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one
-time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and
-homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories
-of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last
-discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The
-Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then
-many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding
-along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe.
-
-The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a
-hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And
-here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the
-vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July;
-August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the
-collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the
-Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for
-they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London
-with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman
-who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go
-and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was
-afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was
-going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved
-from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel.
-
-
-
-X
-
-
-The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at
-Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united
-by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon,
-and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to
-aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an
-honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was
-attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr.
-Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of
-September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew
-little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's
-Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little.
-
-When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with
-apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The
-high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There
-was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy,
-untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They
-were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly
-furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a
-forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster.
-
-"What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while.
-
-"You'll see for yourself."
-
-There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not
-come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again.
-
-"Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said.
-
-Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into
-the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet
-high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked
-loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror
-in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's
-small hand in his.
-
-"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted.
-
-Philip reddened and found no word to answer.
-
-"How old are you?"
-
-"Nine," said Philip.
-
-"You must say sir," said his uncle.
-
-"I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed
-cheerily.
-
-To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers.
-Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch.
-
-"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that,
-won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't
-feel so strange."
-
-Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with
-black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and
-a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular
-coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still.
-Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly
-push towards her.
-
-"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey."
-
-Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not
-speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and
-what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little
-embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two
-got up.
-
-"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now."
-
-"That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on
-like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?"
-
-Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great
-bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away.
-
-"Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the
-school-room."
-
-He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly
-limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables
-that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms.
-
-"Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the
-playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself."
-
-Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with
-high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron
-railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the
-buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately,
-kicking up the gravel as he walked.
-
-"Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?"
-
-The small boy came forward and shook hands.
-
-"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully
-him."
-
-The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear
-by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them.
-
-"What's your name?"
-
-"Carey."
-
-"What's your father?"
-
-"He's dead."
-
-"Oh! Does your mother wash?"
-
-"My mother's dead, too."
-
-Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but
-Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little.
-
-"Well, did she wash?" he went on.
-
-"Yes," said Philip indignantly.
-
-"She was a washerwoman then?"
-
-"No, she wasn't."
-
-"Then she didn't wash."
-
-The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then
-he caught sight of Philip's feet.
-
-"What's the matter with your foot?"
-
-Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the
-one which was whole.
-
-"I've got a club-foot," he answered.
-
-"How did you get it?"
-
-"I've always had it."
-
-"Let's have a look."
-
-"No."
-
-"Don't then."
-
-The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin,
-which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was
-so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the
-surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence
-of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and
-he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit
-anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third
-boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed
-that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his
-feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable.
-
-But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to
-talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what
-wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these
-presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was
-anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to
-say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite
-willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket.
-
-"No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot."
-
-The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had
-asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at
-Philip awkwardly.
-
-
-
-XI
-
-
-Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his
-cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he
-was.
-
-"Are you awake, Singer?"
-
-The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was
-a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of
-ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was
-aired in the morning.
-
-Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning,
-and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his
-prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than
-if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was
-beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the
-discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for
-the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his
-washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and
-a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily
-while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and
-they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of
-the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his
-wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an
-impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice
-as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip
-listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and
-the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two
-large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and
-butter.
-
-Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the
-bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and
-followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which
-they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or
-bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey
-whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think
-boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered
-nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some
-parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it.
-
-Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up
-his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them.
-
-After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the
-day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of
-the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as
-the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into
-school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two
-under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one,
-leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To
-attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known
-officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower
-second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a
-pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the
-time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven
-and they were let out for ten minutes' rest.
-
-The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were
-told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along
-opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran
-from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was
-seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he
-became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still
-free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp
-gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made
-straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant
-idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to
-laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping
-grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They
-lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with
-helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as
-he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got
-up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if
-another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of
-Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck
-the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the
-ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He
-could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that
-he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been
-in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him,
-mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he
-did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using
-all his strength to prevent himself from crying.
-
-Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee
-was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice
-could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange
-novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his
-feet. He tucked them under the bench.
-
-In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped
-Philip on the way out after dinner.
-
-"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him.
-
-Philip blushed self-consciously.
-
-"No, sir."
-
-"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that,
-can't you?"
-
-Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same.
-
-"Yes, sir."
-
-The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he
-had not changed, asked why he was not going to play.
-
-"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip.
-
-"Why?"
-
-There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of
-shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the
-reply.
-
-"He's got a club-foot, sir."
-
-"Oh, I see."
-
-Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and
-he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but
-he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud.
-
-"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you."
-
-Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in
-groups of two or three.
-
-"You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know
-the way, do you?"
-
-Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.
-
-"I can't go very fast, sir."
-
-"Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile.
-
-Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said
-a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.
-
-But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was
-called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's.
-
-"I say, let's look at your foot," he said.
-
-"No," answered Philip.
-
-He jumped into bed quickly.
-
-"Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason."
-
-The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words
-he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off
-him, but he held them tightly.
-
-"Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried.
-
-Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched
-on the blanket. Philip cried out.
-
-"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?"
-
-"I won't."
-
-In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him,
-but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn
-it.
-
-"Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm."
-
-"Stop still then and put out your foot."
-
-Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The
-pain was unendurable.
-
-"All right. I'll do it," said Philip.
-
-He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He
-looked curiously at the deformity.
-
-"Isn't it beastly?" said Mason.
-
-Another came in and looked too.
-
-"Ugh," he said, in disgust.
-
-"My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?"
-
-He touched it with the tip of his forefi

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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
-
-
-Title: Of Human Bondage
-
-Author: W. Somerset Maugham
-
-Release Date: May 6, 2008 [EBook #351]
-
-Language: English
-
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OF HUMAN BONDAGE ***
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-OF HUMAN BONDAGE
-
-
-BY
-
-W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
-
-
-
-
-I
-
-The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a
-rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room
-in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced
-mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and
-went to the child's bed.
-
-"Wake up, Philip," she said.
-
-She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him
-downstairs. He was only half awake.
-
-"Your mother wants you," she said.
-
-She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over
-to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out
-her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had
-been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt
-the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer
-to herself.
-
-"Are you sleepy, darling?" she said.
-
-Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great
-distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very
-happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to
-make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he
-kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep.
-The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side.
-
-"Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned.
-
-The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would
-not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again;
-and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held
-the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly
-passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob.
-
-"What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired."
-
-She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
-The doctor bent down.
-
-"Let me take him."
-
-She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor
-handed him back to his nurse.
-
-"You'd better put him back in his own bed."
-
-"Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His
-mother sobbed now broken-heartedly.
-
-"What will happen to him, poor child?"
-
-The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the
-crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room,
-upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted
-the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the
-woman guessed what he was doing.
-
-"Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse.
-
-"Another boy."
-
-The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She
-approached the bed.
-
-"Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the
-doctor felt his patient's pulse once more.
-
-"I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call
-again after breakfast."
-
-"I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse.
-
-They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped.
-
-"You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?"
-
-"Yes, sir."
-
-"D'you know at what time he'll be here?"
-
-"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram."
-
-"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way."
-
-"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir."
-
-"Who's she?"
-
-"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?"
-
-The doctor shook his head.
-
-
-
-II
-
-It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room
-at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to
-amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each
-of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each
-arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout
-chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he
-could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the
-curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of
-buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open,
-he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand
-piled away a chair and the cushions fell down.
-
-"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you."
-
-"Hulloa, Emma!" he said.
-
-The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions,
-and put them back in their places.
-
-"Am I to come home?" he asked.
-
-"Yes, I've come to fetch you."
-
-"You've got a new dress on."
-
-It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of
-black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had
-three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She
-hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could
-not give the answer she had prepared.
-
-"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length.
-
-"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?"
-
-Now she was ready.
-
-"Your mamma is quite well and happy."
-
-"Oh, I am glad."
-
-"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not
-know what she meant.
-
-"Why not?"
-
-"Your mamma's in heaven."
-
-She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried
-too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features.
-She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in
-London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her
-emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the
-pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite
-unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers.
-But in a little while she pulled herself together.
-
-"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say
-good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home."
-
-"I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide
-his tears.
-
-"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat."
-
-He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall.
-He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He
-paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends,
-and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would
-be sorry for him.
-
-"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin."
-
-"I think you'd better," said Emma.
-
-"Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said.
-
-He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door
-and walked in. He heard her speak.
-
-"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss."
-
-There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in.
-Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In
-those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much
-gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an
-elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies,
-whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously.
-
-"My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms.
-
-She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to
-luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak.
-
-"I've got to go home," said Philip, at last.
-
-He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again.
-Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange
-ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission.
-Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would
-have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they
-expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out
-of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the
-basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta
-Watkin's voice.
-
-"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's
-dead."
-
-"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I
-knew it would upset you."
-
-Then one of the strangers spoke.
-
-"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world.
-I see he limps."
-
-"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother."
-
-Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where
-to go.
-
-
-
-III
-
-
-When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary,
-respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street,
-Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing
-letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which
-had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the
-hall-table.
-
-"Here's Master Philip," said Emma.
-
-Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on
-second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of
-somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair,
-worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was
-clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine
-that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a
-gold cross.
-
-"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you
-like that?"
-
-Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after
-an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an
-attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt.
-
-"Yes."
-
-"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother."
-
-The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer.
-
-"Your dear mother left you in my charge."
-
-Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that
-his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way
-thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if
-her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over
-fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was
-childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a
-small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his
-sister-in-law.
-
-"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said.
-
-"With Emma?"
-
-The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.
-
-"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey.
-
-"But I want Emma to come with me."
-
-Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey
-looked at them helplessly.
-
-"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment."
-
-"Very good, sir."
-
-Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took
-the boy on his knee and put his arm round him.
-
-"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must
-see about sending you to school."
-
-"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated.
-
-"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and
-I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend."
-
-Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's
-father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments
-suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden
-death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more
-than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house
-in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in
-delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and
-accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her
-furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a
-furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience
-till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of
-money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered
-circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way
-and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than
-two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn
-his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was
-sobbing still.
-
-"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console
-the child better than anyone.
-
-Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped
-him.
-
-"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon,
-and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all
-your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by
-you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be
-sold."
-
-The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he
-turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was
-a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially
-seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered
-from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead
-woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon
-herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have
-dismissed her.
-
-But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though
-his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own
-son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft
-words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that
-she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was
-going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike
-on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and
-there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his
-tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey.
-Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped
-her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to
-gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily.
-
-But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in
-which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered
-then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his
-father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take.
-
-"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy."
-
-"Uncle William's there."
-
-"Never mind that. They're your own things now."
-
-Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left
-the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short
-a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him.
-It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy.
-But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the
-landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his
-mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately
-upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and
-listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that
-it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat
-uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the
-handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from
-hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold
-for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened
-now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were
-drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark.
-On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a
-little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the
-chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when
-his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something
-curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were
-going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a
-night-dress.
-
-Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took
-as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They
-smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers,
-filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender
-bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The
-strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had
-just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come
-upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on
-his lips.
-
-It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply
-because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on
-the pillow. He lay there quite still.
-
-
-
-IV
-
-
-Philip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused
-him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was
-sixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set
-out to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than
-five minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the
-gate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and
-it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it.
-They walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by
-visitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went
-up to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a
-side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for
-beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a
-red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical
-style. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room
-windows were gothic.
-
-Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the
-drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she
-went to the door.
-
-"There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and give her
-a kiss."
-
-Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then
-stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her
-husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale
-blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion
-of her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold
-chain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice.
-
-"Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her
-husband.
-
-"I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew.
-
-"It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the child.
-
-"No. I always walk."
-
-He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to
-come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow
-tiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An
-imposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a
-peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church
-was reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with
-emblems of the Four Evangelists.
-
-"I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your
-journey," said Mrs. Carey.
-
-It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if
-the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if
-Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid,
-didn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they
-must keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the
-dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not
-get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on
-Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the
-study so that he could write his sermon.
-
-Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that
-looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large
-tree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it
-was possible to climb quite high up it.
-
-"A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be frightened
-at sleeping alone?"
-
-"Oh, no."
-
-On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs.
-Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some
-uncertainty.
-
-"Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?"
-
-"I can wash myself," he answered firmly.
-
-"Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said Mrs. Carey.
-
-She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should
-come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat
-him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found
-herself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be
-noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys.
-Mrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back
-and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could
-pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for
-tea.
-
-The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of
-it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle;
-and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it.
-In one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs
-covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and
-was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife.
-Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that
-was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair
-had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it.
-
-Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out
-to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and
-polished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was
-much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the
-Curate.
-
-"What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey.
-
-"I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your
-journey."
-
-Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She
-seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year,
-and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two,
-he went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually
-managed to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for
-the exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in
-the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for
-a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do.
-
-"I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann.
-
-She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book
-from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on
-Philip's chair.
-
-"Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked
-tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?"
-
-Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant.
-
-"I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top,
-Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men
-like ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship."
-
-"I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa.
-
-Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut
-the top off his egg.
-
-"There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if you like."
-
-Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so
-took what he could.
-
-"How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the Vicar.
-
-"Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day."
-
-"How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle.
-
-"Very much, thank you."
-
-"You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon."
-
-Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be
-fortified for the evening service.
-
-
-
-V
-
-
-Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by
-fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a
-good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father
-had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant
-career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began
-to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson
-set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription,
-he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey,
-thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with
-mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to
-give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by
-a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a
-patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations,
-but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding.
-The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with
-reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great
-beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a
-hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers
-among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he
-deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he
-told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept
-hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the
-dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at
-luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the
-vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar
-felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume
-the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was
-practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends
-now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it
-was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to
-itself: she had no more idea of money than a child.
-
-When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which
-seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the
-breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the
-late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the
-parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed
-the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than
-usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was
-thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.
-There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember.
-The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this
-was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent,
-and he could not imagine who had ordered them.
-
-"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked.
-
-"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin
-scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember
-me by when he grows up."
-
-Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear
-treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him.
-
-"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said
-Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."
-
-He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to
-be taken.
-
-One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better
-than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had
-taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:
-suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear
-seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was
-expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be
-expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow
-up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately,
-because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had
-no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years
-before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He
-could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called
-her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,
-and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to
-struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had
-been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the
-soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the
-ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when
-she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never
-do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep
-rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt,
-but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of
-a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself
-in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had
-never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her
-beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not
-afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired;
-and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas
-before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped
-downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove
-to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to
-ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant,
-seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she
-insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove
-back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with
-all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.
-
-She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran
-down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her
-room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and
-the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting
-anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and
-reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for,
-and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She
-fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained
-unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched
-her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day,
-when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of
-her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither
-of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they
-were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in
-his memory.
-
-"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up."
-
-"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would
-have done."
-
-
-
-VI
-
-
-One day was very like another at the vicarage.
-
-Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it
-with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took
-it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then
-it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it
-late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was
-making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the
-Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to
-do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing
-village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank,
-the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round
-the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor
-people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs.
-Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to
-the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this
-fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had
-never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street:
-he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent
-their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for
-dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the
-town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers;
-Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the
-difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to
-church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with
-both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of
-going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher
-who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come
-to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was
-very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity
-further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat
-was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often
-stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager,
-who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man
-with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip
-he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats
-for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish
-church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led
-was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit
-from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the
-Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no
-hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory
-consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be
-saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really
-seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish.
-Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care
-he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey
-advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his
-fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in
-the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged
-himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back.
-
-Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey
-still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate
-had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and
-Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission
-Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few
-words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the
-chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views
-upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a
-churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He
-reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was
-the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to
-recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics,
-and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had
-enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To
-this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his
-purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were
-not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political
-meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and
-for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable
-place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was
-little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in
-a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and
-that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His
-sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of
-the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby
-linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in
-his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts
-of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first
-moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in
-life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they
-met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put
-the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her
-brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these
-gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of
-anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but
-they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held
-at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey
-and Josiah Graves both made speeches.
-
-When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally
-went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies
-talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr.
-Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least
-five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in
-the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with
-the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never
-opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had
-a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with
-banking.
-
-Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they
-continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a
-side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt
-(and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and
-nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in
-on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood
-for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who
-knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for
-flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They
-looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram
-the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home.
-
-Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it
-consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and
-Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the
-afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by
-his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of
-French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany
-the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used
-to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs
-by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was
-asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage.
-There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their
-parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr.
-Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of
-Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the
-Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony.
-
-But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset
-them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They
-preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon.
-Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like
-losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary
-Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to
-clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a
-little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat.
-Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then
-Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and
-after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress
-himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs.
-Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She
-then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey
-continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got
-up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed.
-
-When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening
-he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water,
-since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two
-persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in
-Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary
-Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to
-begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday,
-because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired
-after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for
-the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for
-Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night:
-what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't
-know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday
-night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey
-was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But
-the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's
-Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after
-eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they
-might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to
-bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said
-she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he
-should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the
-Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly
-washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night.
-
-
-
-VII
-
-
-Sunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say
-that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week.
-
-The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a
-poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at
-the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she
-got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her
-husband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers
-were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After
-breakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip
-was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a
-marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was
-thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was
-regulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and
-on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were
-most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not
-so fine that people wanted to hurry away.
-
-Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood
-in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten
-the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took
-several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a
-voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his
-face as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the
-arena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife
-could not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black
-satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time,
-but on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then,
-in conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink
-rose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he
-said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed
-as a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage
-when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew
-that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house,
-and no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary
-Ann, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She
-hurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of
-sherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed
-in the carriage, and they set off.
-
-The fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw.
-They drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch
-cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and
-while the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled
-themselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the
-sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip
-threepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the
-service began.
-
-Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a
-gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained
-interest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the
-plate.
-
-When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few
-words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went
-to the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their
-surplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and
-told him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it
-seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved
-him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies,
-sixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one
-put in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes
-there was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was
-always a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But
-Miss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that
-the stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the
-drive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his
-mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates
-Society. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey
-remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and
-somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the
-vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner.
-
-When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay
-down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks.
-
-They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for
-evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she
-read the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the
-evening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the
-darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church
-with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very
-friendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew
-used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more
-easily for the feeling of protection.
-
-They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for
-him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one
-the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully
-tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann
-undressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to
-love her.
-
-
-
-VIII
-
-
-Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his
-loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother
-lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of
-thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at
-eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it;
-but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her
-master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off
-Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories
-of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the
-harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One
-evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was
-afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil
-communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who
-were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable
-in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took
-his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like
-disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be
-untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he
-fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he
-went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her
-heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his
-affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her
-demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes
-she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she
-went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann
-explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she
-heard, and she smiled with constraint.
-
-"He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when she
-returned to her sewing.
-
-"One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into
-shape."
-
-On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred.
-Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the
-drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah
-Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which
-the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in
-Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said
-they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had
-been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the
-Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for
-the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate
-than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his
-secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the
-line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a
-Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they
-were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best,
-the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think
-that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he
-had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often
-related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays
-upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was
-sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to
-preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having
-decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an
-election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue
-letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to
-prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his
-mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the
-candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or
-twice irritably.
-
-Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his
-face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the
-dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around
-him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation
-had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin.
-
-"What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed
-to play games on Sunday."
-
-Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit
-was, flushed deeply.
-
-"I always used to play at home," he answered.
-
-"I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as
-that."
-
-Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be
-supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not
-answer.
-
-"Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you
-suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight,
-and how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws
-in the afternoon?"
-
-Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him
-while Philip did so.
-
-"You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you're
-causing your poor mother in heaven."
-
-Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to
-letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent
-the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to
-turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage
-was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one
-saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green
-fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip
-felt infinitely unhappy.
-
-Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the
-stairs.
-
-"Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked.
-
-"No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a
-wink."
-
-This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own
-thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made
-a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept
-before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar
-narrated the facts.
-
-"He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished.
-
-"Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the
-child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be.
-
-Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not
-know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any
-expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined
-to cry, but no word would issue from his lips.
-
-"You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey.
-
-Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously
-now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his
-uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got
-his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said:
-
-"I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in
-a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God."
-
-Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was
-placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his
-uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual
-went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip.
-
-"Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and
-then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening."
-
-She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room.
-
-"Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the
-hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?"
-
-Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would
-not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with
-him.
-
-"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked
-helplessly.
-
-Philip broke his silence at last.
-
-"I want to be left alone," he said.
-
-"Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your
-uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?"
-
-"I hate you. I wish you was dead."
-
-Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a
-start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as
-she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her
-eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even
-though it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could
-scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached
-so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her
-cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief,
-and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was
-crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her
-silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her
-without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin,
-shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little
-boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart
-would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt
-that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new
-love because he had made her suffer.
-
-
-
-IX
-
-
-On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go
-into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were
-conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip
-asked:
-
-"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?"
-
-"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?"
-
-"I can't sit still till tea-time."
-
-Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could
-not suggest that Philip should go into the garden.
-
-"I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day."
-
-He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and
-turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted.
-
-"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in
-to tea you shall have the top of my egg."
-
-Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had
-bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him.
-
-"The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey.
-
-He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful
-blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened
-his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the
-sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought
-him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his
-feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes,
-and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The
-Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep.
-He snored softly.
-
-It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the
-words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the
-works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal
-life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began
-saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him,
-and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more
-than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering:
-there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long
-twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in
-the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside
-his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by
-tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not
-try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory.
-
-Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so
-wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his
-collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle.
-His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in
-the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about
-to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a
-little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door.
-She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and
-then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had
-put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was
-sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders.
-Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the
-child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now
-she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his
-fillings: he hid himself to weep.
-
-Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she
-burst into the drawing-room.
-
-"William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would
-break."
-
-Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs.
-
-"What's he got to cry about?"
-
-"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you
-think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do."
-
-Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless.
-
-"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more
-than ten lines."
-
-"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William?
-There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in
-that."
-
-"Very well, I don't mind."
-
-Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only
-passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two
-in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty
-volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading,
-but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were
-illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them
-he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon
-with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some
-battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel
-engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine.
-She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to
-compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him
-in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went
-in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands
-so that she might not see he had been crying.
-
-"Do you know the collect yet?" she said.
-
-He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his
-voice. She was oddly embarrassed.
-
-"I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp.
-
-"Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture
-books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them
-together."
-
-Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so
-that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him.
-
-"Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born."
-
-She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets.
-In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting
-two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if
-he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads.
-
-"Read what it says," he asked.
-
-Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic
-narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but
-fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that
-followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted
-her.
-
-"I want to see another picture."
-
-When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth.
-Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations.
-It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for
-tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart;
-he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the
-book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with
-her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this
-eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of
-Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed
-itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more
-books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he
-kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip
-took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to
-read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it
-was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys.
-
-Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps
-because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he
-found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart
-beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but
-there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his
-imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a
-Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic
-vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored
-at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the
-darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat
-went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last
-to some strange mansion.
-
-One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of
-The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the
-illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that
-dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again
-and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him.
-He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner.
-Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of
-reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge
-from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating
-for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day
-a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other
-things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he
-occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble
-themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know
-them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one
-time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and
-homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories
-of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last
-discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The
-Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then
-many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding
-along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe.
-
-The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a
-hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And
-here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the
-vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July;
-August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the
-collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the
-Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for
-they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London
-with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman
-who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go
-and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was
-afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was
-going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved
-from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel.
-
-
-
-X
-
-
-The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at
-Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united
-by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon,
-and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to
-aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an
-honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was
-attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr.
-Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of
-September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew
-little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's
-Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little.
-
-When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with
-apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The
-high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There
-was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy,
-untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They
-were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly
-furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a
-forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster.
-
-"What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while.
-
-"You'll see for yourself."
-
-There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not
-come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again.
-
-"Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said.
-
-Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into
-the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet
-high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked
-loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror
-in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's
-small hand in his.
-
-"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted.
-
-Philip reddened and found no word to answer.
-
-"How old are you?"
-
-"Nine," said Philip.
-
-"You must say sir," said his uncle.
-
-"I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed
-cheerily.
-
-To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers.
-Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch.
-
-"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that,
-won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't
-feel so strange."
-
-Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with
-black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and
-a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular
-coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still.
-Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly
-push towards her.
-
-"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey."
-
-Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not
-speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and
-what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little
-embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two
-got up.
-
-"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now."
-
-"That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on
-like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?"
-
-Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great
-bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away.
-
-"Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the
-school-room."
-
-He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly
-limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables
-that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms.
-
-"Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the
-playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself."
-
-Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with
-high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron
-railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the
-buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately,
-kicking up the gravel as he walked.
-
-"Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?"
-
-The small boy came forward and shook hands.
-
-"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully
-him."
-
-The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear
-by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them.
-
-"What's your name?"
-
-"Carey."
-
-"What's your father?"
-
-"He's dead."
-
-"Oh! Does your mother wash?"
-
-"My mother's dead, too."
-
-Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but
-Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little.
-
-"Well, did she wash?" he went on.
-
-"Yes," said Philip indignantly.
-
-"She was a washerwoman then?"
-
-"No, she wasn't."
-
-"Then she didn't wash."
-
-The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then
-he caught sight of Philip's feet.
-
-"What's the matter with your foot?"
-
-Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the
-one which was whole.
-
-"I've got a club-foot," he answered.
-
-"How did you get it?"
-
-"I've always had it."
-
-"Let's have a look."
-
-"No."
-
-"Don't then."
-
-The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin,
-which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was
-so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the
-surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence
-of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and
-he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit
-anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third
-boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed
-that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his
-feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable.
-
-But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to
-talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what
-wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these
-presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was
-anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to
-say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite
-willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket.
-
-"No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot."
-
-The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had
-asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at
-Philip awkwardly.
-
-
-
-XI
-
-
-Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his
-cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he
-was.
-
-"Are you awake, Singer?"
-
-The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was
-a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of
-ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was
-aired in the morning.
-
-Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning,
-and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his
-prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than
-if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was
-beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the
-discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for
-the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his
-washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and
-a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily
-while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and
-they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of
-the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his
-wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an
-impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice
-as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip
-listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and
-the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two
-large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and
-butter.
-
-Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the
-bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and
-followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which
-they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or
-bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey
-whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think
-boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered
-nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some
-parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it.
-
-Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up
-his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them.
-
-After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the
-day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of
-the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as
-the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into
-school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two
-under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one,
-leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To
-attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known
-officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower
-second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a
-pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the
-time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven
-and they were let out for ten minutes' rest.
-
-The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were
-told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along
-opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran
-from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was
-seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he
-became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still
-free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp
-gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made
-straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant
-idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to
-laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping
-grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They
-lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with
-helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as
-he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got
-up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if
-another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of
-Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck
-the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the
-ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He
-could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that
-he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been
-in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him,
-mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he
-did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using
-all his strength to prevent himself from crying.
-
-Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee
-was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice
-could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange
-novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his
-feet. He tucked them under the bench.
-
-In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped
-Philip on the way out after dinner.
-
-"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him.
-
-Philip blushed self-consciously.
-
-"No, sir."
-
-"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that,
-can't you?"
-
-Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same.
-
-"Yes, sir."
-
-The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he
-had not changed, asked why he was not going to play.
-
-"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip.
-
-"Why?"
-
-There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of
-shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the
-reply.
-
-"He's got a club-foot, sir."
-
-"Oh, I see."
-
-Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and
-he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but
-he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud.
-
-"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you."
-
-Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in
-groups of two or three.
-
-"You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know
-the way, do you?"
-
-Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.
-
-"I can't go very fast, sir."
-
-"Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile.
-
-Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said
-a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.
-
-But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was
-called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's.
-
-"I say, let's look at your foot," he said.
-
-"No," answered Philip.
-
-He jumped into bed quickly.
-
-"Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason."
-
-The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words
-he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off
-him, but he held them tightly.
-
-"Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried.
-
-Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched
-on the blanket. Philip cried out.
-
-"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?"
-
-"I won't."
-
-In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him,
-but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn
-it.
-
-"Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm."
-
-"Stop still then and put out your foot."
-
-Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The
-pain was unendurable.
-
-"All right. I'll do it," said Philip.
-
-He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He
-looked curiously at the deformity.
-
-"Isn't it beastly?" said Mason.
-
-Another came in and looked too.
-
-"Ugh," he said, in disgust.
-
-"My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?"
-
-He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, ca

<TRUNCATED>

[10/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

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-***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
-********************The Tragedie of Macbeth*********************
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-The Tragedie of Macbeth
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-Executive Director's Notes:
-
-In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think all
-the spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time have
-been corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as they
-are presented herein:
-
-  Barnardo. Who's there?
-  Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold
-your selfe
-
-   Bar. Long liue the King
-
-***
-
-As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words
-or letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . .this is the
-original meaning of the term cliche. . .and thus, being unwilling
-to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions
-that look very odd. . .such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,
-above. . .and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming
-Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . .
-
-The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a
-time when they were out of "v"'s. . .possibly having used "vv" in
-place of some "w"'s, etc.  This was a common practice of the day,
-as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend
-more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
-
-You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I
-have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an
-extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a
-very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare.  My father read an
-assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University
-in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the
-purpose.  To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available
-. . .in great detail. . .and determined from the various changes,
-that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a
-variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous
-for signing his name with several different spellings.
-
-So, please take this into account when reading the comments below
-made by our volunteer who prepared this file:  you may see errors
-that are "not" errors. . . .
-
-So. . .with this caveat. . .we have NOT changed the canon errors,
-here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie 
-of Macbeth.
-
-Michael S. Hart
-Project Gutenberg
-Executive Director
-
-
-***
-
-
-Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't.  This was taken from
-a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can
-come in ASCII to the printed text.
-
-The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the
-conjoined ae have been changed to ae.  I have left the spelling,
-punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the
-printed text.  I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put
-together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the
-Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified
-spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded
-abbreviations as I have come across them.  Everything within
-brackets [] is what I have added.  So if you don't like that
-you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a
-purer Shakespeare.
-
-Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual
-differences between various copies of the first folio.  So there may
-be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between
-this and other first folio editions.  This is due to the printer's
-habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and
-then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then
-continuing the printing run.  The proof run wasn't thrown away but
-incorporated into the printed copies.  This is just the way it is.
-The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different
-First Folio editions' best pages.
-
-If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuation
-errors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feel
-free to email me those errors.  I wish to make this the best
-etext possible.  My email address for right now are haradda@aol.com
-and davidr@inconnect.com.  I hope that you enjoy this.
-
-David Reed
-
-The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
-
-Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.
-
-  1. When shall we three meet againe?
-In Thunder, Lightning, or in Raine?
-  2. When the Hurley-burley's done,
-When the Battaile's lost, and wonne
-
-   3. That will be ere the set of Sunne
-
-   1. Where the place?
-  2. Vpon the Heath
-
-   3. There to meet with Macbeth
-
-   1. I come, Gray-Malkin
-
-   All. Padock calls anon: faire is foule, and foule is faire,
-Houer through the fogge and filthie ayre.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Alarum within. Enter King Malcome, Donalbaine, Lenox, with
-attendants,
-meeting a bleeding Captaine.
-
-  King. What bloody man is that? he can report,
-As seemeth by his plight, of the Reuolt
-The newest state
-
-   Mal. This is the Serieant,
-Who like a good and hardie Souldier fought
-'Gainst my Captiuitie: Haile braue friend;
-Say to the King, the knowledge of the Broyle,
-As thou didst leaue it
-
-   Cap. Doubtfull it stood,
-As two spent Swimmers, that doe cling together,
-And choake their Art: The mercilesse Macdonwald
-(Worthie to be a Rebell, for to that
-The multiplying Villanies of Nature
-Doe swarme vpon him) from the Westerne Isles
-Of Kernes and Gallowgrosses is supply'd,
-And Fortune on his damned Quarry smiling,
-Shew'd like a Rebells Whore: but all's too weake:
-For braue Macbeth (well hee deserues that Name)
-Disdayning Fortune, with his brandisht Steele,
-Which smoak'd with bloody execution
-(Like Valours Minion) caru'd out his passage,
-Till hee fac'd the Slaue:
-Which neu'r shooke hands, nor bad farwell to him,
-Till he vnseam'd him from the Naue toth' Chops,
-And fix'd his Head vpon our Battlements
-
-   King. O valiant Cousin, worthy Gentleman
-
-   Cap. As whence the Sunne 'gins his reflection,
-Shipwracking Stormes, and direfull Thunders:
-So from that Spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,
-Discomfort swells: Marke King of Scotland, marke,
-No sooner Iustice had, with Valour arm'd,
-Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their heeles,
-But the Norweyan Lord, surueying vantage,
-With furbusht Armes, and new supplyes of men,
-Began a fresh assault
-
-   King. Dismay'd not this our Captaines, Macbeth and
-Banquoh?
-  Cap. Yes, as Sparrowes, Eagles;
-Or the Hare, the Lyon:
-If I say sooth, I must report they were
-As Cannons ouer-charg'd with double Cracks,
-So they doubly redoubled stroakes vpon the Foe:
-Except they meant to bathe in reeking Wounds,
-Or memorize another Golgotha,
-I cannot tell: but I am faint,
-My Gashes cry for helpe
-
-   King. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds,
-They smack of Honor both: Goe get him Surgeons.
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-Who comes here?
-  Mal. The worthy Thane of Rosse
-
-   Lenox. What a haste lookes through his eyes?
-So should he looke, that seemes to speake things strange
-
-   Rosse. God saue the King
-
-   King. Whence cam'st thou, worthy Thane?
-  Rosse. From Fiffe, great King,
-Where the Norweyan Banners flowt the Skie,
-And fanne our people cold.
-Norway himselfe, with terrible numbers,
-Assisted by that most disloyall Traytor,
-The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismall Conflict,
-Till that Bellona's Bridegroome, lapt in proofe,
-Confronted him with selfe-comparisons,
-Point against Point, rebellious Arme 'gainst Arme,
-Curbing his lauish spirit: and to conclude,
-The Victorie fell on vs
-
-   King. Great happinesse
-
-   Rosse. That now Sweno, the Norwayes King,
-Craues composition:
-Nor would we deigne him buriall of his men,
-Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes ynch,
-Ten thousand Dollars, to our generall vse
-
-   King. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceiue
-Our Bosome interest: Goe pronounce his present death,
-And with his former Title greet Macbeth
-
-   Rosse. Ile see it done
-
-   King. What he hath lost, Noble Macbeth hath wonne.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1. Where hast thou beene, Sister?
-  2. Killing Swine
-
-   3. Sister, where thou?
-  1. A Saylors Wife had Chestnuts in her Lappe,
-And mouncht, & mouncht, and mouncht:
-Giue me, quoth I.
-Aroynt thee, Witch, the rumpe-fed Ronyon cryes.
-Her Husband's to Aleppo gone, Master o'th' Tiger:
-But in a Syue Ile thither sayle,
-And like a Rat without a tayle,
-Ile doe, Ile doe, and Ile doe
-
-   2. Ile giue thee a Winde
-
-   1. Th'art kinde
-
-   3. And I another
-
-   1. I my selfe haue all the other,
-And the very Ports they blow,
-All the Quarters that they know,
-I'th' Ship-mans Card.
-Ile dreyne him drie as Hay:
-Sleepe shall neyther Night nor Day
-Hang vpon his Pent-house Lid:
-He shall liue a man forbid:
-Wearie Seu'nights, nine times nine,
-Shall he dwindle, peake, and pine:
-Though his Barke cannot be lost,
-Yet it shall be Tempest-tost.
-Looke what I haue
-
-   2. Shew me, shew me
-
-   1. Here I haue a Pilots Thumbe,
-Wrackt, as homeward he did come.
-
-Drum within.
-
-  3. A Drumme, a Drumme:
-Macbeth doth come
-
-   All. The weyward Sisters, hand in hand,
-Posters of the Sea and Land,
-Thus doe goe, about, about,
-Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
-And thrice againe, to make vp nine.
-Peace, the Charme's wound vp.
-Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
-
-  Macb. So foule and faire a day I haue not seene
-
-   Banquo. How farre is't call'd to Soris? What are these,
-So wither'd, and so wilde in their attyre,
-That looke not like th' Inhabitants o'th' Earth,
-And yet are on't? Liue you, or are you aught
-That man may question? you seeme to vnderstand me,
-By each at once her choppie finger laying
-Vpon her skinnie Lips: you should be Women,
-And yet your Beards forbid me to interprete
-That you are so
-
-   Mac. Speake if you can: what are you?
-  1. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Glamis
-
-   2. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Cawdor
-
-   3. All haile Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter
-
-   Banq. Good Sir, why doe you start, and seeme to feare
-Things that doe sound so faire? i'th' name of truth
-Are ye fantasticall, or that indeed
-Which outwardly ye shew? My Noble Partner
-You greet with present Grace, and great prediction
-Of Noble hauing, and of Royall hope,
-That he seemes wrapt withall: to me you speake not.
-If you can looke into the Seedes of Time,
-And say, which Graine will grow, and which will not,
-Speake then to me, who neyther begge, nor feare
-Your fauors, nor your hate
-
-   1. Hayle
-
-   2. Hayle
-
-   3. Hayle
-
-   1. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater
-
-   2. Not so happy, yet much happyer
-
-   3. Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none:
-So all haile Macbeth, and Banquo
-
-   1. Banquo, and Macbeth, all haile
-
-   Macb. Stay you imperfect Speakers, tell me more:
-By Sinells death, I know I am Thane of Glamis,
-But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor liues
-A prosperous Gentleman: And to be King,
-Stands not within the prospect of beleefe,
-No more then to be Cawdor. Say from whence
-You owe this strange Intelligence, or why
-Vpon this blasted Heath you stop our way
-With such Prophetique greeting?
-Speake, I charge you.
-
-Witches vanish.
-
-  Banq. The Earth hath bubbles, as the Water ha's,
-And these are of them: whither are they vanish'd?
-  Macb. Into the Ayre: and what seem'd corporall,
-Melted, as breath into the Winde.
-Would they had stay'd
-
-   Banq. Were such things here, as we doe speake about?
-Or haue we eaten on the insane Root,
-That takes the Reason Prisoner?
-  Macb. Your Children shall be Kings
-
-   Banq. You shall be King
-
-   Macb. And Thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?
-  Banq. Toth' selfe-same tune and words: who's here?
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-  Rosse. The King hath happily receiu'd, Macbeth,
-The newes of thy successe: and when he reades
-Thy personall Venture in the Rebels sight,
-His Wonders and his Prayses doe contend,
-Which should be thine, or his: silenc'd with that,
-In viewing o're the rest o'th' selfe-same day,
-He findes thee in the stout Norweyan Rankes,
-Nothing afeard of what thy selfe didst make
-Strange Images of death, as thick as Tale
-Can post with post, and euery one did beare
-Thy prayses in his Kingdomes great defence,
-And powr'd them downe before him
-
-   Ang. Wee are sent,
-To giue thee from our Royall Master thanks,
-Onely to harrold thee into his sight,
-Not pay thee
-
-   Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater Honor,
-He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:
-In which addition, haile most worthy Thane,
-For it is thine
-
-   Banq. What, can the Deuill speake true?
-  Macb. The Thane of Cawdor liues:
-Why doe you dresse me in borrowed Robes?
-  Ang. Who was the Thane, liues yet,
-But vnder heauie Iudgement beares that Life,
-Which he deserues to loose.
-Whether he was combin'd with those of Norway,
-Or did lyne the Rebell with hidden helpe,
-And vantage; or that with both he labour'd
-In his Countreyes wracke, I know not:
-But Treasons Capitall, confess'd, and prou'd,
-Haue ouerthrowne him
-
-   Macb. Glamys, and Thane of Cawdor:
-The greatest is behinde. Thankes for your paines.
-Doe you not hope your Children shall be Kings,
-When those that gaue the Thane of Cawdor to me,
-Promis'd no lesse to them
-
-   Banq. That trusted home,
-Might yet enkindle you vnto the Crowne,
-Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:
-And oftentimes, to winne vs to our harme,
-The Instruments of Darknesse tell vs Truths,
-Winne vs with honest Trifles, to betray's
-In deepest consequence.
-Cousins, a word, I pray you
-
-   Macb. Two Truths are told,
-As happy Prologues to the swelling Act
-Of the Imperiall Theame. I thanke you Gentlemen:
-This supernaturall solliciting
-Cannot be ill; cannot be good.
-If ill? why hath it giuen me earnest of successe,
-Commencing in a Truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
-If good? why doe I yeeld to that suggestion,
-Whose horrid Image doth vnfixe my Heire,
-And make my seated Heart knock at my Ribbes,
-Against the vse of Nature? Present Feares
-Are lesse then horrible Imaginings:
-My Thought, whose Murther yet is but fantasticall,
-Shakes so my single state of Man,
-That Function is smother'd in surmise,
-And nothing is, but what is not
-
-   Banq. Looke how our Partner's rapt
-
-   Macb. If Chance will haue me King,
-Why Chance may Crowne me,
-Without my stirre
-
-   Banq. New Honors come vpon him
-Like our strange Garments, cleaue not to their mould,
-But with the aid of vse
-
-   Macb. Come what come may,
-Time, and the Houre, runs through the roughest Day
-
-   Banq. Worthy Macbeth, wee stay vpon your leysure
-
-   Macb. Giue me your fauour:
-My dull Braine was wrought with things forgotten.
-Kinde Gentlemen, your paines are registred,
-Where euery day I turne the Leafe,
-To reade them.
-Let vs toward the King: thinke vpon
-What hath chanc'd: and at more time,
-The Interim hauing weigh'd it, let vs speake
-Our free Hearts each to other
-
-   Banq. Very gladly
-
-   Macb. Till then enough:
-Come friends.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Flourish. Enter King, Lenox, Malcolme, Donalbaine, and
-Attendants.
-
-  King. Is execution done on Cawdor?
-Or not those in Commission yet return'd?
-  Mal. My Liege, they are not yet come back.
-But I haue spoke with one that saw him die:
-Who did report, that very frankly hee
-Confess'd his Treasons, implor'd your Highnesse Pardon,
-And set forth a deepe Repentance:
-Nothing in his Life became him,
-Like the leauing it. Hee dy'de,
-As one that had beene studied in his death,
-To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,
-As 'twere a carelesse Trifle
-
-   King. There's no Art,
-To finde the Mindes construction in the Face.
-He was a Gentleman, on whom I built
-An absolute Trust.
-Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Rosse, and Angus.
-
-O worthyest Cousin,
-The sinne of my Ingratitude euen now
-Was heauie on me. Thou art so farre before,
-That swiftest Wing of Recompence is slow,
-To ouertake thee. Would thou hadst lesse deseru'd,
-That the proportion both of thanks, and payment,
-Might haue beene mine: onely I haue left to say,
-More is thy due, then more then all can pay
-
-   Macb. The seruice, and the loyaltie I owe,
-In doing it, payes it selfe.
-Your Highnesse part, is to receiue our Duties:
-And our Duties are to your Throne, and State,
-Children, and Seruants; which doe but what they should,
-By doing euery thing safe toward your Loue
-And Honor
-
-   King. Welcome hither:
-I haue begun to plant thee, and will labour
-To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
-That hast no lesse deseru'd, nor must be knowne
-No lesse to haue done so: Let me enfold thee,
-And hold thee to my Heart
-
-   Banq. There if I grow,
-The Haruest is your owne
-
-   King. My plenteous Ioyes,
-Wanton in fulnesse, seeke to hide themselues
-In drops of sorrow. Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,
-And you whose places are the nearest, know,
-We will establish our Estate vpon
-Our eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,
-The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor must
-Not vnaccompanied, inuest him onely,
-But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shine
-On all deseruers. From hence to Envernes,
-And binde vs further to you
-
-   Macb. The Rest is Labor, which is not vs'd for you:
-Ile be my selfe the Herbenger, and make ioyfull
-The hearing of my Wife, with your approach:
-So humbly take my leaue
-
-   King. My worthy Cawdor
-
-   Macb. The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step,
-On which I must fall downe, or else o're-leape,
-For in my way it lyes. Starres hide your fires,
-Let not Light see my black and deepe desires:
-The Eye winke at the Hand: yet let that bee,
-Which the Eye feares, when it is done to see.
-Enter.
-
-  King. True worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,
-And in his commendations, I am fed:
-It is a Banquet to me. Let's after him,
-Whose care is gone before, to bid vs welcome:
-It is a peerelesse Kinsman.
-
-Flourish. Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Enter Macbeths Wife alone with a Letter.
-
-  Lady. They met me in the day of successe: and I haue
-learn'd by the perfect'st report, they haue more in them, then
-mortall knowledge. When I burnt in desire to question them
-further, they made themselues Ayre, into which they vanish'd.
-Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missiues from
-the King, who all-hail'd me Thane of Cawdor, by which Title
-before, these weyward Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me to
-the comming on of time, with haile King that shalt be. This
-haue I thought good to deliuer thee (my dearest Partner of
-Greatnesse) that thou might'st not loose the dues of reioycing
-by being ignorant of what Greatnesse is promis'd thee. Lay
-it to thy heart and farewell.
-Glamys thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
-What thou art promis'd: yet doe I feare thy Nature,
-It is too full o'th' Milke of humane kindnesse,
-To catch the neerest way. Thou would'st be great,
-Art not without Ambition, but without
-The illnesse should attend it. What thou would'st highly,
-That would'st thou holily: would'st not play false,
-And yet would'st wrongly winne.
-Thould'st haue, great Glamys, that which cryes,
-Thus thou must doe, if thou haue it;
-And that which rather thou do'st feare to doe,
-Then wishest should be vndone. High thee hither,
-That I may powre my Spirits in thine Eare,
-And chastise with the valour of my Tongue
-All that impeides thee from the Golden Round,
-Which Fate and Metaphysicall ayde doth seeme
-To haue thee crown'd withall.
-Enter Messenger.
-
-What is your tidings?
-  Mess. The King comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it.
-Is not thy Master with him? who, wer't so,
-Would haue inform'd for preparation
-
-   Mess. So please you, it is true: our Thane is comming:
-One of my fellowes had the speed of him;
-Who almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
-Then would make vp his Message
-
-   Lady. Giue him tending,
-He brings great newes,
-
-Exit Messenger.
-
-The Rauen himselfe is hoarse,
-That croakes the fatall entrance of Duncan
-Vnder my Battlements. Come you Spirits,
-That tend on mortall thoughts, vnsex me here,
-And fill me from the Crowne to the Toe, top-full
-Of direst Crueltie: make thick my blood,
-Stop vp th' accesse, and passage to Remorse,
-That no compunctious visitings of Nature
-Shake my fell purpose, nor keepe peace betweene
-Th' effect, and hit. Come to my Womans Brests,
-And take my Milke for Gall, you murth'ring Ministers,
-Where-euer, in your sightlesse substances,
-You wait on Natures Mischiefe. Come thick Night,
-And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell,
-
-That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes,
-Nor Heauen peepe through the Blanket of the darke,
-To cry, hold, hold.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-Great Glamys, worthy Cawdor,
-Greater then both, by the all-haile hereafter,
-Thy Letters haue transported me beyond
-This ignorant present, and I feele now
-The future in the instant
-
-   Macb. My dearest Loue,
-Duncan comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. And when goes hence?
-  Macb. To morrow, as he purposes
-
-   Lady. O neuer,
-Shall Sunne that Morrow see.
-Your Face, my Thane, is as a Booke, where men
-May reade strange matters, to beguile the time.
-Looke like the time, beare welcome in your Eye,
-Your Hand, your Tongue: looke like th' innocent flower,
-But be the Serpent vnder't. He that's comming,
-Must be prouided for: and you shall put
-This Nights great Businesse into my dispatch,
-Which shall to all our Nights, and Dayes to come,
-Giue solely soueraigne sway, and Masterdome
-
-   Macb. We will speake further,
-  Lady. Onely looke vp cleare:
-To alter fauor, euer is to feare:
-Leaue all the rest to me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Sexta.
-
-Hoboyes, and Torches. Enter King, Malcolme, Donalbaine,
-Banquo, Lenox,
-Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and Attendants.
-
-  King. This Castle hath a pleasant seat,
-The ayre nimbly and sweetly recommends it selfe
-Vnto our gentle sences
-
-   Banq. This Guest of Summer,
-The Temple-haunting Barlet does approue,
-By his loued Mansonry, that the Heauens breath
-Smells wooingly here: no Iutty frieze,
-Buttrice, nor Coigne of Vantage, but this Bird
-Hath made his pendant Bed, and procreant Cradle,
-Where they must breed, and haunt: I haue obseru'd
-The ayre is delicate.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  King. See, see our honor'd Hostesse:
-The Loue that followes vs, sometime is our trouble,
-Which still we thanke as Loue. Herein I teach you,
-How you shall bid God-eyld vs for your paines,
-And thanke vs for your trouble
-
-   Lady. All our seruice,
-In euery point twice done, and then done double,
-Were poore, and single Businesse, to contend
-Against those Honors deepe, and broad,
-Wherewith your Maiestie loades our House:
-For those of old, and the late Dignities,
-Heap'd vp to them, we rest your Ermites
-
-   King. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
-We courst him at the heeles, and had a purpose
-To be his Purueyor: But he rides well,
-And his great Loue (sharpe as his Spurre) hath holp him
-To his home before vs: Faire and Noble Hostesse
-We are your guest to night
-
-   La. Your Seruants euer,
-Haue theirs, themselues, and what is theirs in compt,
-To make their Audit at your Highnesse pleasure,
-Still to returne your owne
-
-   King. Giue me your hand:
-Conduct me to mine Host we loue him highly,
-And shall continue, our Graces towards him.
-By your leaue Hostesse.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Septima.
-
-Hoboyes. Torches. Enter a Sewer, and diuers Seruants with Dishes
-and
-Seruice ouer the Stage. Then enter Macbeth
-
-   Macb. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twer well,
-It were done quickly: If th' Assassination
-Could trammell vp the Consequence, and catch
-With his surcease, Successe: that but this blow
-Might be the be all, and the end all. Heere,
-But heere, vpon this Banke and Schoole of time,
-Wee'ld iumpe the life to come. But in these Cases,
-We still haue iudgement heere, that we but teach
-Bloody Instructions, which being taught, returne
-To plague th' Inuenter, this euen-handed Iustice
-Commends th' Ingredience of our poyson'd Challice
-To our owne lips. Hee's heere in double trust;
-First, as I am his Kinsman, and his Subiect,
-Strong both against the Deed: Then, as his Host,
-Who should against his Murtherer shut the doore,
-Not beare the knife my selfe. Besides, this Duncane
-Hath borne his Faculties so meeke; hath bin
-So cleere in his great Office, that his Vertues
-Will pleade like Angels, Trumpet-tongu'd against
-The deepe damnation of his taking off:
-And Pitty, like a naked New-borne-Babe,
-Striding the blast, or Heauens Cherubin, hors'd
-Vpon the sightlesse Curriors of the Ayre,
-Shall blow the horrid deed in euery eye,
-That teares shall drowne the winde. I haue no Spurre
-To pricke the sides of my intent, but onely
-Vaulting Ambition, which ore-leapes it selfe,
-And falles on th' other.
-Enter Lady.
-
-How now? What Newes?
-  La. He has almost supt: why haue you left the chamber?
-  Mac. Hath he ask'd for me?
-  La. Know you not, he ha's?
-  Mac. We will proceed no further in this Businesse:
-He hath Honour'd me of late, and I haue bought
-Golden Opinions from all sorts of people,
-Which would be worne now in their newest glosse,
-Not cast aside so soone
-
-   La. Was the hope drunke,
-Wherein you drest your selfe? Hath it slept since?
-And wakes it now to looke so greene, and pale,
-At what it did so freely? From this time,
-Such I account thy loue. Art thou affear'd
-To be the same in thine owne Act, and Valour,
-As thou art in desire? Would'st thou haue that
-Which thou esteem'st the Ornament of Life,
-And liue a Coward in thine owne Esteeme?
-Letting I dare not, wait vpon I would,
-Like the poore Cat i'th' Addage
-
-   Macb. Prythee peace:
-I dare do all that may become a man,
-Who dares do more, is none
-
-   La. What Beast was't then
-That made you breake this enterprize to me?
-When you durst do it, then you were a man:
-And to be more then what you were, you would
-Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place
-Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
-They haue made themselues, and that their fitnesse now
-Do's vnmake you. I haue giuen Sucke, and know
-How tender 'tis to loue the Babe that milkes me,
-I would, while it was smyling in my Face,
-Haue pluckt my Nipple from his Bonelesse Gummes,
-And dasht the Braines out, had I so sworne
-As you haue done to this
-
-   Macb. If we should faile?
-  Lady. We faile?
-But screw your courage to the sticking place,
-And wee'le not fayle: when Duncan is asleepe,
-(Whereto the rather shall his dayes hard Iourney
-Soundly inuite him) his two Chamberlaines
-Will I with Wine, and Wassell, so conuince,
-That Memorie, the Warder of the Braine,
-Shall be a Fume, and the Receit of Reason
-A Lymbeck onely: when in Swinish sleepe,
-Their drenched Natures lyes as in a Death,
-What cannot you and I performe vpon
-Th' vnguarded Duncan? What not put vpon
-His spungie Officers? who shall beare the guilt
-Of our great quell
-
-   Macb. Bring forth Men-Children onely:
-For thy vndaunted Mettle should compose
-Nothing but Males. Will it not be receiu'd,
-When we haue mark'd with blood those sleepie two
-Of his owne Chamber, and vs'd their very Daggers,
-That they haue don't?
-  Lady. Who dares receiue it other,
-As we shall make our Griefes and Clamor rore,
-Vpon his Death?
-  Macb. I am settled, and bend vp
-Each corporall Agent to this terrible Feat.
-Away, and mock the time with fairest show,
-False Face must hide what the false Heart doth know.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo, and Fleance, with a Torch before him.
-
-  Banq. How goes the Night, Boy?
-  Fleance. The Moone is downe: I haue not heard the
-Clock
-
-   Banq. And she goes downe at Twelue
-
-   Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir
-
-   Banq. Hold, take my Sword:
-There's Husbandry in Heauen,
-Their Candles are all out: take thee that too.
-A heauie Summons lyes like Lead vpon me,
-And yet I would not sleepe:
-Mercifull Powers, restraine in me the cursed thoughts
-That Nature giues way to in repose.
-Enter Macbeth, and a Seruant with a Torch.
-
-Giue me my Sword: who's there?
-  Macb. A Friend
-
-   Banq. What Sir, not yet at rest? the King's a bed.
-He hath beene in vnusuall Pleasure,
-And sent forth great Largesse to your Offices.
-This Diamond he greetes your Wife withall,
-By the name of most kind Hostesse,
-And shut vp in measurelesse content
-
-   Mac. Being vnprepar'd,
-Our will became the seruant to defect,
-Which else should free haue wrought
-
-   Banq. All's well.
-I dreamt last Night of the three weyward Sisters:
-To you they haue shew'd some truth
-
-   Macb. I thinke not of them:
-Yet when we can entreat an houre to serue,
-We would spend it in some words vpon that Businesse,
-If you would graunt the time
-
-   Banq. At your kind'st leysure
-
-   Macb. If you shall cleaue to my consent,
-When 'tis, it shall make Honor for you
-
-   Banq. So I lose none,
-In seeking to augment it, but still keepe
-My Bosome franchis'd, and Allegeance cleare,
-I shall be counsail'd
-
-   Macb. Good repose the while
-
-   Banq. Thankes Sir: the like to you.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-  Macb. Goe bid thy Mistresse, when my drinke is ready,
-She strike vpon the Bell. Get thee to bed.
-Enter.
-
-Is this a Dagger, which I see before me,
-The Handle toward my Hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
-I haue thee not, and yet I see thee still.
-Art thou not fatall Vision, sensible
-To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
-A Dagger of the Minde, a false Creation,
-Proceeding from the heat-oppressed Braine?
-I see thee yet, in forme as palpable,
-As this which now I draw.
-Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
-And such an Instrument I was to vse.
-Mine Eyes are made the fooles o'th' other Sences,
-Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
-And on thy Blade, and Dudgeon, Gouts of Blood,
-Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
-It is the bloody Businesse, which informes
-Thus to mine Eyes. Now o're the one halfe World
-Nature seemes dead, and wicked Dreames abuse
-The Curtain'd sleepe: Witchcraft celebrates
-Pale Heccats Offrings: and wither'd Murther,
-Alarum'd by his Centinell, the Wolfe,
-Whose howle's his Watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
-With Tarquins rauishing sides, towards his designe
-Moues like a Ghost. Thou sowre and firme-set Earth
-Heare not my steps, which they may walke, for feare
-Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
-And take the present horror from the time,
-Which now sutes with it. Whiles I threat, he liues:
-Words to the heat of deedes too cold breath giues.
-
-A Bell rings.
-
-I goe, and it is done: the Bell inuites me.
-Heare it not, Duncan, for it is a Knell,
-That summons thee to Heauen, or to Hell.
-Enter.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Lady.
-
-  La. That which hath made the[m] drunk, hath made me bold:
-What hath quench'd them, hath giuen me fire.
-Hearke, peace: it was the Owle that shriek'd,
-The fatall Bell-man, which giues the stern'st good-night.
-He is about it, the Doores are open:
-And the surfeted Groomes doe mock their charge
-With Snores. I haue drugg'd their Possets,
-That Death and Nature doe contend about them,
-Whether they liue, or dye.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. Who's there? what hoa?
-  Lady. Alack, I am afraid they haue awak'd,
-And 'tis not done: th' attempt, and not the deed,
-Confounds vs: hearke: I lay'd their Daggers ready,
-He could not misse 'em. Had he not resembled
-My Father as he slept, I had don't.
-My Husband?
-  Macb. I haue done the deed:
-Didst thou not heare a noyse?
-  Lady. I heard the Owle schreame, and the Crickets cry.
-Did not you speake?
-  Macb. When?
-  Lady. Now
-
-   Macb. As I descended?
-  Lady. I
-
-   Macb. Hearke, who lyes i'th' second Chamber?
-  Lady. Donalbaine
-
-   Mac. This is a sorry sight
-
-   Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight
-
-   Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleepe,
-And one cry'd Murther, that they did wake each other:
-I stood, and heard them: But they did say their Prayers,
-And addrest them againe to sleepe
-
-   Lady. There are two lodg'd together
-
-   Macb. One cry'd God blesse vs, and Amen the other,
-As they had seene me with these Hangmans hands:
-Listning their feare, I could not say Amen,
-When they did say God blesse vs
-
-   Lady. Consider it not so deepely
-
-   Mac. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen?
-I had most need of Blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat
-
-   Lady. These deeds must not be thought
-After these wayes: so, it will make vs mad
-
-   Macb. Me thought I heard a voyce cry, Sleep no more:
-Macbeth does murther Sleepe, the innocent Sleepe,
-Sleepe that knits vp the rauel'd Sleeue of Care,
-The death of each dayes Life, sore Labors Bath,
-Balme of hurt Mindes, great Natures second Course,
-Chiefe nourisher in Life's Feast
-
-   Lady. What doe you meane?
-  Macb. Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the House:
-Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and therefore Cawdor
-Shall sleepe no more: Macbeth shall sleepe no more
-
-   Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why worthy Thane,
-You doe vnbend your Noble strength, to thinke
-So braine-sickly of things: Goe get some Water,
-And wash this filthie Witnesse from your Hand.
-Why did you bring these Daggers from the place?
-They must lye there: goe carry them, and smeare
-The sleepie Groomes with blood
-
-   Macb. Ile goe no more:
-I am afraid, to thinke what I haue done:
-Looke on't againe, I dare not
-
-   Lady. Infirme of purpose:
-Giue me the Daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
-Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Childhood,
-That feares a painted Deuill. If he doe bleed,
-Ile guild the Faces of the Groomes withall,
-For it must seeme their Guilt.
-Enter.
-
-Knocke within.
-
-  Macb. Whence is that knocking?
-How is't with me, when euery noyse appalls me?
-What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes.
-Will all great Neptunes Ocean wash this blood
-Cleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather
-The multitudinous Seas incarnardine,
-Making the Greene one, Red.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. My Hands are of your colour: but I shame
-To weare a Heart so white.
-
-Knocke.
-
-I heare a knocking at the South entry:
-Retyre we to our Chamber:
-A little Water cleares vs of this deed.
-How easie is it then? your Constancie
-Hath left you vnattended.
-
-Knocke.
-
-Hearke, more knocking.
-Get on your Night-Gowne, least occasion call vs,
-And shew vs to be Watchers: be not lost
-So poorely in your thoughts
-
-   Macb. To know my deed,
-
-Knocke.
-
-'Twere best not know my selfe.
-Wake Duncan with thy knocking:
-I would thou could'st.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
-
-  Porter. Here's a knocking indeede: if a man were
-Porter of Hell Gate, hee should haue old turning the
-Key.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there
-i'th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hang'd
-himselfe on th' expectation of Plentie: Come in time, haue
-Napkins enow about you, here you'le sweat for't.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name?
-Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in both
-the Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treason
-enough for Gods sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen:
-oh come in, Equiuocator.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an English
-Taylor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose:
-Come in Taylor, here you may rost your Goose.
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but this
-place is too cold for Hell. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further:
-I had thought to haue let in some of all Professions, that
-goe the Primrose way to th' euerlasting Bonfire.
-
-Knock.
-
-Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.
-Enter Macduff, and Lenox.
-
-  Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed,
-That you doe lye so late?
-  Port. Faith Sir, we were carowsing till the second Cock:
-And Drinke, Sir, is a great prouoker of three things
-
-   Macd. What three things does Drinke especially
-prouoke?
-  Port. Marry, Sir, Nose-painting, Sleepe, and Vrine.
-Lecherie, Sir, it prouokes, and vnprouokes: it prouokes
-the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore
-much Drinke may be said to be an Equiuocator with Lecherie:
-it makes him, and it marres him; it sets him on,
-and it takes him off; it perswades him, and dis-heartens
-him; makes him stand too, and not stand too: in conclusion,
-equiuocates him in a sleepe, and giuing him the Lye,
-leaues him
-
-   Macd. I beleeue, Drinke gaue thee the Lye last Night
-
-   Port. That it did, Sir, i'the very Throat on me: but I
-requited him for his Lye, and (I thinke) being too strong
-for him, though he tooke vp my Legges sometime, yet I
-made a Shift to cast him.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macd. Is thy Master stirring?
-Our knocking ha's awak'd him: here he comes
-
-   Lenox. Good morrow, Noble Sir
-
-   Macb. Good morrow both
-
-   Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?
-  Macb. Not yet
-
-   Macd. He did command me to call timely on him,
-I haue almost slipt the houre
-
-   Macb. Ile bring you to him
-
-   Macd. I know this is a ioyfull trouble to you:
-But yet 'tis one
-
-   Macb. The labour we delight in, Physicks paine:
-This is the Doore
-
-   Macd. Ile make so bold to call, for 'tis my limitted
-seruice.
-
-Exit Macduffe.
-
-  Lenox. Goes the King hence to day?
-  Macb. He does: he did appoint so
-
-   Lenox. The Night ha's been vnruly:
-Where we lay, our Chimneys were blowne downe,
-And (as they say) lamentings heard i'th' Ayre;
-Strange Schreemes of Death,
-And Prophecying, with Accents terrible,
-Of dyre Combustion, and confus'd Euents,
-New hatch'd toth' wofull time.
-The obscure Bird clamor'd the liue-long Night.
-Some say, the Earth was Feuorous,
-And did shake
-
-   Macb. 'Twas a rough Night
-
-   Lenox. My young remembrance cannot paralell
-A fellow to it.
-Enter Macduff.
-
-  Macd. O horror, horror, horror,
-Tongue nor Heart cannot conceiue, nor name thee
-
-   Macb. and Lenox. What's the matter?
-  Macd. Confusion now hath made his Master-peece:
-Most sacrilegious Murther hath broke ope
-The Lords anoynted Temple, and stole thence
-The Life o'th' Building
-
-   Macb. What is't you say, the Life?
-  Lenox. Meane you his Maiestie?
-  Macd. Approch the Chamber, and destroy your sight
-With a new Gorgon. Doe not bid me speake:
-See, and then speake your selues: awake, awake,
-
-Exeunt. Macbeth and Lenox.
-
-Ring the Alarum Bell: Murther, and Treason,
-Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolme awake,
-Shake off this Downey sleepe, Deaths counterfeit,
-And looke on Death it selfe: vp, vp, and see
-The great Doomes Image: Malcolme, Banquo,
-As from your Graues rise vp, and walke like Sprights,
-To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell.
-
-Bell rings. Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. What's the Businesse?
-That such a hideous Trumpet calls to parley
-The sleepers of the House? speake, speake
-
-   Macd. O gentle Lady,
-'Tis not for you to heare what I can speake:
-The repetition in a Womans eare,
-Would murther as it fell.
-Enter Banquo.
-
-O Banquo, Banquo, Our Royall Master's murther'd
-
-   Lady. Woe, alas:
-What, in our House?
-  Ban. Too cruell, any where.
-Deare Duff, I prythee contradict thy selfe,
-And say, it is not so.
-Enter Macbeth, Lenox, and Rosse.
-
-  Macb. Had I but dy'd an houre before this chance,
-I had liu'd a blessed time: for from this instant,
-There's nothing serious in Mortalitie:
-All is but Toyes: Renowne and Grace is dead,
-The Wine of Life is drawne, and the meere Lees
-Is left this Vault, to brag of.
-Enter Malcolme and Donalbaine.
-
-  Donal. What is amisse?
-  Macb. You are, and doe not know't:
-The Spring, the Head, the Fountaine of your Blood
-Is stopt, the very Source of it is stopt
-
-   Macd. Your Royall Father's murther'd
-
-   Mal. Oh, by whom?
-  Lenox. Those of his Chamber, as it seem'd, had don't:
-Their Hands and Faces were all badg'd with blood,
-So were their Daggers, which vnwip'd, we found
-Vpon their Pillowes: they star'd, and were distracted,
-No mans Life was to be trusted with them
-
-   Macb. O, yet I doe repent me of my furie,
-That I did kill them
-
-   Macd. Wherefore did you so?
-  Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temp'rate, & furious,
-Loyall, and Neutrall, in a moment? No man:
-Th' expedition of my violent Loue
-Out-run the pawser, Reason. Here lay Duncan,
-His Siluer skinne, lac'd with His Golden Blood,
-And his gash'd Stabs, look'd like a Breach in Nature,
-For Ruines wastfull entrance: there the Murtherers,
-Steep'd in the Colours of their Trade; their Daggers
-Vnmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refraine,
-That had a heart to loue; and in that heart,
-Courage, to make's loue knowne?
-  Lady. Helpe me hence, hoa
-
-   Macd. Looke to the Lady
-
-   Mal. Why doe we hold our tongues,
-That most may clayme this argument for ours?
-  Donal. What should be spoken here,
-Where our Fate hid in an augure hole,
-May rush, and seize vs? Let's away,
-Our Teares are not yet brew'd
-
-   Mal. Nor our strong Sorrow
-Vpon the foot of Motion
-
-   Banq. Looke to the Lady:
-And when we haue our naked Frailties hid,
-That suffer in exposure; let vs meet,
-And question this most bloody piece of worke,
-To know it further. Feares and scruples shake vs:
-In the great Hand of God I stand, and thence,
-Against the vndivulg'd pretence, I fight
-Of Treasonous Mallice
-
-   Macd. And so doe I
-
-   All. So all
-
-   Macb. Let's briefely put on manly readinesse,
-And meet i'th' Hall together
-
-   All. Well contented.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-  Malc. What will you doe?
-Let's not consort with them:
-To shew an vnfelt Sorrow, is an Office
-Which the false man do's easie.
-Ile to England
-
-   Don. To Ireland, I:
-Our seperated fortune shall keepe vs both the safer:
-Where we are, there's Daggers in mens smiles;
-The neere in blood, the neerer bloody
-
-   Malc. This murtherous Shaft that's shot,
-Hath not yet lighted: and our safest way,
-Is to auoid the ayme. Therefore to Horse,
-And let vs not be daintie of leaue-taking,
-But shift away: there's warrant in that Theft,
-Which steales it selfe, when there's no mercie left.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Enter Rosse, with an Old man.
-
-  Old man. Threescore and ten I can remember well,
-Within the Volume of which Time, I haue seene
-Houres dreadfull, and things strange: but this sore Night
-Hath trifled former knowings
-
-   Rosse. Ha, good Father,
-Thou seest the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act,
-Threatens his bloody Stage: byth' Clock 'tis Day,
-And yet darke Night strangles the trauailing Lampe:
-Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes shame,
-That Darknesse does the face of Earth intombe,
-When liuing Light should kisse it?
-  Old man. 'Tis vnnaturall,
-Euen like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last,
-A Faulcon towring in her pride of place,
-Was by a Mowsing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd
-
-   Rosse. And Duncans Horses,
-(A thing most strange, and certaine)
-Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race,
-Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their stalls, flong out,
-Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they would
-Make Warre with Mankinde
-
-   Old man. 'Tis said, they eate each other
-
-   Rosse. They did so:
-To th' amazement of mine eyes that look'd vpon't.
-Enter Macduffe.
-
-Heere comes the good Macduffe.
-How goes the world Sir, now?
-  Macd. Why see you not?
-  Ross. Is't known who did this more then bloody deed?
-  Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slaine
-
-   Ross. Alas the day,
-What good could they pretend?
-  Macd. They were subborned,
-Malcolme, and Donalbaine the Kings two Sonnes
-Are stolne away and fled, which puts vpon them
-Suspition of the deed
-
-   Rosse. 'Gainst Nature still,
-Thriftlesse Ambition, that will rauen vp
-Thine owne liues meanes: Then 'tis most like,
-The Soueraignty will fall vpon Macbeth
-
-   Macd. He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone
-To be inuested
-
-   Rosse. Where is Duncans body?
-  Macd. Carried to Colmekill,
-The Sacred Store-house of his Predecessors,
-And Guardian of their Bones
-
-   Rosse. Will you to Scone?
-  Macd. No Cosin, Ile to Fife
-
-   Rosse. Well, I will thither
-
-   Macd. Well may you see things wel done there: Adieu
-Least our old Robes sit easier then our new
-
-   Rosse. Farewell, Father
-
-   Old M. Gods benyson go with you, and with those
-That would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes.
-
-Exeunt. omnes
-
-Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo.
-
-  Banq. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
-As the weyard Women promis'd, and I feare
-Thou playd'st most fowly for't: yet it was saide
-It should not stand in thy Posterity,
-But that my selfe should be the Roote, and Father
-Of many Kings. If there come truth from them,
-As vpon thee Macbeth, their Speeches shine,
-Why by the verities on thee made good,
-May they not be my Oracles as well,
-And set me vp in hope. But hush, no more.
-
-Senit sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Lenox, Rosse, Lords,
-and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. Heere's our chiefe Guest
-
-   La. If he had beene forgotten,
-It had bene as a gap in our great Feast,
-And all-thing vnbecomming
-
-   Macb. To night we hold a solemne Supper sir,
-And Ile request your presence
-
-   Banq. Let your Highnesse
-Command vpon me, to the which my duties
-Are with a most indissoluble tye
-For euer knit
-
-   Macb. Ride you this afternoone?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. We should haue else desir'd your good aduice
-(Which still hath been both graue, and prosperous)
-In this dayes Councell: but wee'le take to morrow.
-Is't farre you ride?
-  Ban. As farre, my Lord, as will fill vp the time
-'Twixt this, and Supper. Goe not my Horse the better,
-I must become a borrower of the Night,
-For a darke houre, or twaine
-
-   Macb. Faile not our Feast
-
-   Ban. My Lord, I will not
-
-   Macb. We heare our bloody Cozens are bestow'd
-In England, and in Ireland, not confessing
-Their cruell Parricide, filling their hearers
-With strange inuention. But of that to morrow,
-When therewithall, we shall haue cause of State,
-Crauing vs ioyntly. Hye you to Horse:
-Adieu, till you returne at Night.
-Goes Fleance with you?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord: our time does call vpon's
-
-   Macb. I wish your Horses swift, and sure of foot:
-And so I doe commend you to their backs.
-Farwell.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-Let euery man be master of his time,
-Till seuen at Night, to make societie
-The sweeter welcome:
-We will keepe our selfe till Supper time alone:
-While then, God be with you.
-
-Exeunt. Lords.
-
-Sirrha, a word with you: Attend those men
-Our pleasure?
-  Seruant. They are, my Lord, without the Pallace
-Gate
-
-   Macb. Bring them before vs.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-To be thus, is nothing, but to be safely thus
-Our feares in Banquo sticke deepe,
-And in his Royaltie of Nature reignes that
-Which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
-And to that dauntlesse temper of his Minde,
-He hath a Wisdome, that doth guide his Valour,
-To act in safetie. There is none but he,
-Whose being I doe feare: and vnder him,
-My Genius is rebuk'd, as it is said
-Mark Anthonies was by Caesar. He chid the Sisters,
-When first they put the Name of King vpon me,
-And bad them speake to him. Then Prophet-like,
-They hayl'd him Father to a Line of Kings.
-Vpon my Head they plac'd a fruitlesse Crowne,
-And put a barren Scepter in my Gripe,
-Thence to be wrencht with an vnlineall Hand,
-No Sonne of mine succeeding: if't be so,
-For Banquo's Issue haue I fil'd my Minde,
-For them, the gracious Duncan haue I murther'd,
-Put Rancours in the Vessell of my Peace
-Onely for them, and mine eternall Iewell
-Giuen to the common Enemie of Man,
-To make them Kings, the Seedes of Banquo Kings.
-Rather then so, come Fate into the Lyst,
-And champion me to th' vtterance.
-Who's there?
-Enter Seruant, and two Murtherers.
-
-Now goe to the Doore, and stay there till we call.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
-  Murth. It was, so please your Highnesse
-
-   Macb. Well then,
-Now haue you consider'd of my speeches:
-Know, that it was he, in the times past,
-Which held you so vnder fortune,
-Which you thought had been our innocent selfe.
-This I made good to you, in our last conference,
-Past in probation with you:
-How you were borne in hand, how crost:
-The Instruments: who wrought with them:
-And all things else, that might
-To halfe a Soule, and to a Notion craz'd,
-Say, Thus did Banquo
-
-   1.Murth. You made it knowne to vs
-
-   Macb. I did so:
-And went further, which is now
-Our point of second meeting.
-Doe you finde your patience so predominant,
-In your nature, that you can let this goe?
-Are you so Gospell'd, to pray for this good man,
-And for his Issue, whose heauie hand
-Hath bow'd you to the Graue, and begger'd
-Yours for euer?
-  1.Murth. We are men, my Liege
-
-   Macb. I, in the Catalogue ye goe for men,
-As Hounds, and Greyhounds, Mungrels, Spaniels, Curres,
-Showghes, Water-Rugs, and Demy-Wolues are clipt
-All by the Name of Dogges: the valued file
-Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
-The House-keeper, the Hunter, euery one
-According to the gift, which bounteous Nature
-Hath in him clos'd: whereby he does receiue
-Particular addition, from the Bill,
-That writes them all alike: and so of men.
-Now, if you haue a station in the file,
-Not i'th' worst ranke of Manhood, say't,
-And I will put that Businesse in your Bosomes,
-Whose execution takes your Enemie off,
-Grapples you to the heart; and loue of vs,
-Who weare our Health but sickly in his Life,
-Which in his Death were perfect
-
-   2.Murth. I am one, my Liege,
-Whom the vile Blowes and Buffets of the World
-Hath so incens'd, that I am recklesse what I doe,
-To spight the World
-
-   1.Murth. And I another,
-So wearie with Disasters, tugg'd with Fortune,
-That I would set my Life on any Chance,
-To mend it, or be rid on't
-
-   Macb. Both of you know Banquo was your Enemie
-
-   Murth. True, my Lord
-
-   Macb. So is he mine: and in such bloody distance,
-That euery minute of his being, thrusts
-Against my neer'st of Life: and though I could
-With bare-fac'd power sweepe him from my sight,
-And bid my will auouch it; yet I must not,
-For certaine friends that are both his, and mine,
-Whose loues I may not drop, but wayle his fall,
-Who I my selfe struck downe: and thence it is,
-That I to your assistance doe make loue,
-Masking the Businesse from the common Eye,
-For sundry weightie Reasons
-
-   2.Murth. We shall, my Lord,
-Performe what you command vs
-
-   1.Murth. Though our Liues-
-  Macb. Your Spirits shine through you.
-Within this houre, at most,
-I will aduise you where to plant your selues,
-Acquaint you with the perfect Spy o'th' time,
-The moment on't, for't must be done to Night,
-And something from the Pallace: alwayes thought,
-That I require a clearenesse; and with him,
-To leaue no Rubs nor Botches in the Worke:
-  Fleans , his Sonne, that keepes him companie,
-Whose absence is no lesse materiall to me,
-Then is his Fathers, must embrace the fate
-Of that darke houre: resolue your selues apart,
-Ile come to you anon
-
-   Murth. We are resolu'd, my Lord
-
-   Macb. Ile call vpon you straight: abide within,
-It is concluded: Banquo, thy Soules flight,
-If it finde Heauen, must finde it out to Night.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macbeths Lady, and a Seruant.
-
-  Lady. Is Banquo gone from Court?
-  Seruant. I, Madame, but returnes againe to Night
-
-   Lady. Say to the King, I would attend his leysure,
-For a few words
-
-   Seruant. Madame, I will.
-Enter.
-
-  Lady. Nought's had, all's spent.
-Where our desire is got without content:
-'Tis safer, to be that which we destroy,
-Then by destruction dwell in doubtfull ioy.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-How now, my Lord, why doe you keepe alone?
-Of sorryest Fancies your Companions making,
-Vsing those Thoughts, which should indeed haue dy'd
-With them they thinke on: things without all remedie
-Should be without regard: what's done, is done
-
-   Macb. We haue scorch'd the Snake, not kill'd it:
-Shee'le close, and be her selfe, whilest our poore Mallice
-Remaines in danger of her former Tooth.
-But let the frame of things dis-ioynt,
-Both the Worlds suffer,
-Ere we will eate our Meale in feare, and sleepe
-In the affliction of these terrible Dreames,
-That shake vs Nightly: Better be with the dead,
-Whom we, to gayne our peace, haue sent to peace,
-Then on the torture of the Minde to lye
-In restlesse extasie.
-Duncane is in his Graue:
-After Lifes fitfull Feuer, he sleepes well,
-Treason ha's done his worst: nor Steele, nor Poyson,
-Mallice domestique, forraine Leuie, nothing,
-Can touch him further
-
-   Lady. Come on:
-Gentle my Lord, sleeke o're your rugged Lookes,
-Be bright and Iouiall among your Guests to Night
-
-   Macb. So shall I Loue, and so I pray be you:
-Let your remembrance apply to Banquo,
-Present him Eminence, both with Eye and Tongue:
-Vnsafe the while, that wee must laue
-Our Honors in these flattering streames,
-And make our Faces Vizards to our Hearts,
-Disguising what they are
-
-   Lady. You must leaue this
-
-   Macb. O, full of Scorpions is my Minde, deare Wife:
-Thou know'st, that Banquo and his Fleans liues
-
-   Lady. But in them, Natures Coppie's not eterne
-
-   Macb. There's comfort yet, they are assaileable,
-Then be thou iocund: ere the Bat hath flowne
-His Cloyster'd flight, ere to black Heccats summons
-The shard-borne Beetle, with his drowsie hums,
-Hath rung Nights yawning Peale,
-There shall be done a deed of dreadfull note
-
-   Lady. What's to be done?
-  Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck,
-Till thou applaud the deed: Come, seeling Night,
-Skarfe vp the tender Eye of pittifull Day,
-And with thy bloodie and inuisible Hand
-Cancell and teare to pieces that great Bond,
-Which keepes me pale. Light thickens,
-And the Crow makes Wing toth' Rookie Wood:
-Good things of Day begin to droope, and drowse,
-Whiles Nights black Agents to their Prey's doe rowse.
-Thou maruell'st at my words: but hold thee still,
-Things bad begun, make strong themselues by ill:
-So prythee goe with me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter three Murtherers.
-
-  1. But who did bid thee ioyne with vs?
-  3. Macbeth
-
-   2. He needes not our mistrust, since he deliuers
-Our Offices, and what we haue to doe,
-To the direction iust
-
-   1. Then stand with vs:
-The West yet glimmers with some streakes of Day.
-Now spurres the lated Traueller apace,
-To gayne the timely Inne, and neere approches
-The subiect of our Watch
-
-   3. Hearke, I heare Horses
-
-   Banquo within. Giue vs a Light there, hoa
-
-   2. Then 'tis hee:
-The rest, that are within the note of expectation,
-Alreadie are i'th' Court
-
-   1. His Horses goe about
-
-   3. Almost a mile: but he does vsually,
-So all men doe, from hence toth' Pallace Gate
-Make it their Walke.
-Enter Banquo and Fleans, with a Torch.
-
-  2. A Light, a Light
-
-   3. 'Tis hee
-
-   1. Stand too't
-
-   Ban. It will be Rayne to Night
-
-   1. Let it come downe
-
-   Ban. O, Trecherie!
-Flye good Fleans, flye, flye, flye,
-Thou may'st reuenge. O Slaue!
-  3. Who did strike out the Light?
-  1. Was't not the way?
-  3. There's but one downe: the Sonne is fled
-
-   2. We haue lost
-Best halfe of our Affaire
-
-   1. Well, let's away, and say how much is done.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Quarta.
-
-Banquet prepar'd. Enter Macbeth, Lady, Rosse, Lenox, Lords, and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. You know your owne degrees, sit downe:
-At first and last, the hearty welcome
-
-   Lords. Thankes to your Maiesty
-
-   Macb. Our selfe will mingle with Society,
-And play the humble Host:
-Our Hostesse keepes her State, but in best time
-We will require her welcome
-
-   La. Pronounce it for me Sir, to all our Friends,
-For my heart speakes, they are welcome.
-Enter first Murtherer.
-
-  Macb. See they encounter thee with their harts thanks
-Both sides are euen: heere Ile sit i'th' mid'st,
-Be large in mirth, anon wee'l drinke a Measure
-The Table round. There's blood vpon thy face
-
-   Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then
-
-   Macb. 'Tis better thee without, then he within.
-Is he dispatch'd?
-  Mur. My Lord his throat is cut, that I did for him
-
-   Mac. Thou art the best o'th' Cut-throats,
-Yet hee's good that did the like for Fleans:
-If thou did'st it, thou art the Non-pareill
-
-   Mur. Most Royall Sir
-Fleans is scap'd
-
-   Macb. Then comes my Fit againe:
-I had else beene perfect;
-Whole as the Marble, founded as the Rocke,
-As broad, and generall, as the casing Ayre:
-But now I am cabin'd, crib'd, confin'd, bound in
-To sawcy doubts, and feares. But Banquo's safe?
-  Mur. I, my good Lord: safe in a ditch he bides,
-With twenty trenched gashes on his head;
-The least a Death to Nature
-
-   Macb. Thankes for that:
-There the growne Serpent lyes, the worme that's fled
-Hath Nature that in time will Venom breed,
-No teeth for th' present. Get thee gone, to morrow
-Wee'l heare our selues againe.
-
-Exit Murderer.
-
-  Lady. My Royall Lord,
-You do not giue the Cheere, the Feast is sold
-That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making:
-'Tis giuen, with welcome: to feede were best at home:
-From thence, the sawce to meate is Ceremony,
-Meeting were bare without it.
-Enter the Ghost of Banquo, and sits in Macbeths place.
-
-  Macb. Sweet Remembrancer:
-Now good digestion waite on Appetite,
-And health on both
-
-   Lenox. May't please your Highnesse sit
-
-   Macb. Here had we now our Countries Honor, roof'd,
-Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present:
-Who, may I rather challenge for vnkindnesse,
-Then pitty for Mischance
-
-   Rosse. His absence (Sir)
-Layes blame vpon his promise. Pleas't your Highnesse
-To grace vs with your Royall Company?
-  Macb. The Table's full
-
-   Lenox. Heere is a place reseru'd Sir
-
-   Macb. Where?
-  Lenox. Heere my good Lord.
-What is't that moues your Highnesse?
-  Macb. Which of you haue done this?
-  Lords. What, my good Lord?
-  Macb. Thou canst not say I did it: neuer shake
-Thy goary lockes at me
-
-   Rosse. Gentlemen rise, his Highnesse is not well
-
-   Lady. Sit worthy Friends: my Lord is often thus,
-And hath beene from his youth. Pray you keepe Seat,
-The fit is momentary, vpon a thought
-He will againe be well. If much you note him
-You shall offend him, and extend his Passion,
-Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man?
-  Macb. I, and a bold one, that dare looke on that
-Which might appall the Diuell
-
-   La. O proper stuffe:
-This is the very painting of your feare:
-This is the Ayre-drawne-Dagger which you said
-Led you to Duncan. O, these flawes and starts
-(Impostors to true feare) would well become
-A womans story, at a Winters fire
-Authoriz'd by her Grandam: shame it selfe,
-Why do you make such faces? When all's done
-You looke but on a stoole
-
-   Macb. Prythee see there:
-Behold, looke, loe, how say you:
-Why what care I, if thou canst nod, speake too.
-If Charnell houses, and our Graues must send
-Those that we bury, backe; our Monuments
-Shall be the Mawes of Kytes
-
-   La. What? quite vnmann'd in folly
-
-   Macb. If I stand heere, I saw him
-
-   La. Fie for shame
-
-   Macb. Blood hath bene shed ere now, i'th' olden time
-Ere humane Statute purg'd the gentle Weale:
-I, and since too, Murthers haue bene perform'd
-Too terrible for the eare. The times has bene,
-That when the Braines were out, the man would dye,
-And there an end: But now they rise againe
-With twenty mortall murthers on their crownes,
-And push vs from our stooles. This is more strange
-Then such a murther is
-
-   La. My worthy Lord
-Your Noble Friends do lacke you
-
-   Macb. I do forget:
-Do not muse at me my most worthy Friends,
-I haue a strange infirmity, which is nothing
-To those that know me. Come, loue and health to all,
-Then Ile sit downe: Giue me some Wine, fill full:
-Enter Ghost.
-
-I drinke to th' generall ioy o'th' whole Table,
-And to our deere Friend Banquo, whom we misse:
-Would he were heere: to all, and him we thirst,
-And all to all
-
-   Lords. Our duties, and the pledge
-
-   Mac. Auant, & quit my sight, let the earth hide thee:
-Thy bones are marrowlesse, thy blood is cold:
-Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
-Which thou dost glare with
-
-   La. Thinke of this good Peeres
-But as a thing of Custome: 'Tis no other,
-Onely it spoyles the pleasure of the time
-
-   Macb. What man dare, I dare:
-Approach thou like the rugged Russian Beare,
-The arm'd Rhinoceros, or th' Hircan Tiger,
-Take any shape but that, and my firme Nerues
-Shall neuer tremble. Or be aliue againe,
-And dare me to the Desart with thy Sword:
-If trembling I inhabit then, protest mee
-The Baby of a Girle. Hence horrible shadow,
-Vnreall mock'ry hence. Why so, being gone
-I am a man againe: pray you sit still
-
-   La. You haue displac'd the mirth,
-Broke the good meeting, with most admir'd disorder
-
-   Macb. Can such things be,
-And ouercome vs like a Summers Clowd,
-Without our speciall wonder? You make me strange
-Euen to the disposition that I owe,
-When now I thinke you can behold such sights,
-And keepe the naturall Rubie of your Cheekes,
-When mine is blanch'd with feare
-
-   Rosse. What sights, my Lord?
-  La. I pray you speake not: he growes worse & worse
-Question enrages him: at once, goodnight.
-Stand not vpon the order of your going,
-But go at once
-
-   Len. Good night, and better health
-Attend his Maiesty
-
-   La. A kinde goodnight to all.
-
-Exit Lords.
-
-  Macb. It will haue blood they say:
-Blood will haue Blood:
-Stones haue beene knowne to moue, & Trees to speake:
-Augures, and vnderstood Relations, haue
-By Maggot Pyes, & Choughes, & Rookes brought forth
-The secret'st man of Blood. What is the night?
-  La. Almost at oddes with morning, which is which
-
-   Macb. How say'st thou that Macduff denies his person
-At our great bidding
-
-   La. Did you send to him Sir?
-  Macb. I heare it by the way: But I will send:
-There's not a one of them but in his house
-I keepe a Seruant Feed. I will to morrow
-(And betimes I will) to the weyard Sisters.
-More shall they speake: for now I am bent to know
-By the worst meanes, the worst, for mine owne good,
-All causes shall giue way. I am in blood
-Stept in so farre, that should I wade no more,
-Returning were as tedious as go ore:
-Strange things I haue in head, that will to hand,
-Which must be acted, ere they may be scand
-
-   La. You lacke the season of all Natures, sleepe
-
-   Macb. Come, wee'l to sleepe: My strange & self-abuse
-Is the initiate feare, that wants hard vse:
-We are yet but yong indeed.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecat.
-
-  1. Why how now Hecat, you looke angerly?
-  Hec. Haue I not reason (Beldams) as you are?
-Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare
-To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,
-In Riddles, and Affaires of death;
-And I the Mistris of your Charmes,
-The close contriuer of all harmes,
-Was neuer call'd to beare my part,
-Or shew the glory of our Art?
-And which is worse, all you haue done
-Hath bene but for a wayward Sonne,
-Spightfull, and wrathfull, who (as others do)
-Loues for his owne ends, not for you.
-But make amends now: Get you gon,
-And at the pit of Acheron
-Meete me i'th' Morning: thither he
-Will come, to know his Destinie.
-Your Vessels, and your Spels prouide,
-Your Charmes, and euery thing beside;
-I am for th' Ayre: This night Ile spend
-Vnto a dismall, and a Fatall end.
-Great businesse must be wrought ere Noone.
-Vpon the Corner of the Moone
-There hangs a vap'rous drop, profound,
-Ile catch it ere it come to ground;
-And that distill'd by Magicke slights,
-Shall raise such Artificiall Sprights,
-As by the strength of their illusion,
-Shall draw him on to his Confusion.
-He shall spurne Fate, scorne Death, and beare
-His hopes 'boue Wisedome, Grace, and Feare:
-And you all know, Security
-Is Mortals cheefest Enemie.
-
-Musicke, and a Song.
-
-Hearke, I am call'd: my little Spirit see
-Sits in Foggy cloud, and stayes for me.
-
-Sing within. Come away, come away, &c.
-
-  1 Come, let's make hast, shee'l soone be
-Backe againe.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Sexta.
-
-Enter Lenox, and another Lord.
-
-  Lenox. My former Speeches,
-Haue but hit your Thoughts
-Which can interpret farther: Onely I say
-Things haue bin strangely borne. The gracious Duncan
-Was pittied of Macbeth: marry he was dead:
-And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,
-Whom you may say (if't please you) Fleans kill'd,
-For Fleans fled: Men must not walke too late.
-Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous
-It was for Malcolme, and for Donalbane
-To kill their gracious Father? Damned Fact,
-How it did greeue Macbeth? Did he not straight
-In pious rage, the two delinquents teare,
-That were the Slaues of drinke, and thralles of sleepe?
-Was not that Nobly done? I, and wisely too:
-For 'twould haue anger'd any heart aliue
-To heare the men deny't. So that I say,
-He ha's borne all things well, and I do thinke,
-That had he Duncans Sonnes vnder his Key,
-(As, and't please Heauen he shall not) they should finde
-What 'twere to kill a Father: So should Fleans.
-But peace; for from broad words, and cause he fayl'd
-His presence at the Tyrants Feast, I heare
-Macduffe liues in disgrace. Sir, can you tell
-Where he bestowes himselfe?
-  Lord. The Sonnes of Duncane
-(From whom this Tyrant holds the due of Birth)
-Liues in the English Court, and is receyu'd
-Of the most Pious Edward, with such grace,
-That the maleuolence of Fortune, nothing
-Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduffe
-Is gone, to pray the Holy King, vpon his ayd
-To wake Northumberland, and warlike Seyward,
-That by the helpe of these (with him aboue)
-To ratifie the Worke) we may againe
-Giue to our Tables meate, sleepe to our Nights:
-Free from our Feasts, and Banquets bloody kniues;
-Do faithfull Homage, and receiue free Honors,
-All which we pine for now. And this report
-Hath so exasperate their King, that hee
-Prepares for some attempt of Warre
-
-   Len. Sent he to Macduffe?
-  Lord. He did: and with an absolute Sir, not I
-The clowdy Messenger turnes me his backe,
-And hums; as who should say, you'l rue the time
-That clogges me with this Answer
-
-   Lenox. And that well might
-Aduise him to a Caution, t' hold what distance
-His wisedome can prouide. Some holy Angell
-Flye to the Court of England, and vnfold
-His Message ere he come, that a swift blessing
-May soone returne to this our suffering Country,
-Vnder a hand accurs'd
-
-   Lord. Ile send my Prayers with him.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1 Thrice the brinded Cat hath mew'd
-
-   2 Thrice, and once the Hedge-Pigge whin'd
-
-   3 Harpier cries, 'tis time, 'tis time
-
-   1 Round about the Caldron go:
-In the poysond Entrailes throw
-Toad, that vnder cold stone,
-Dayes and Nights, ha's thirty one:
-Sweltred Venom sleeping got,
-Boyle thou first i'th' charmed pot
-
-   All. Double, double, toile and trouble;
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Fillet of a Fenny Snake,
-In the Cauldron boyle and bake:
-Eye of Newt, and Toe of Frogge,
-Wooll of Bat, and Tongue of Dogge:
-Adders Forke, and Blinde-wormes Sting,
-Lizards legge, and Howlets wing:
-For a Charme of powrefull trouble,
-Like a Hell-broth, boyle and bubble
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   3 Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolfe,
-Witches Mummey, Maw, and Gulfe
-Of the rauin'd salt Sea sharke:
-Roote of Hemlocke, digg'd i'th' darke:
-Liuer of Blaspheming Iew,
-Gall of Goate, and Slippes of Yew,
-Sliuer'd in the Moones Ecclipse:
-Nose of Turke, and Tartars lips:
-Finger of Birth-strangled Babe,
-Ditch-deliuer'd by a Drab,
-Make the Grewell thicke, and slab.
-Adde thereto a Tigers Chawdron,
-For th' Ingredience of our Cawdron
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Coole it with a Baboones blood,
-Then the Charme is firme and good.
-Enter Hecat, and the other three Witches.
-
-  Hec. O well done: I commend your paines,
-And euery one shall share i'th' gaines:
-And now about the Cauldron sing
-Like Elues and Fairies in a Ring,
-Inchanting all that you put in.
-
-Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.
-
-  2 By the pricking of my Thumbes,
-Something wicked this way comes:
-Open Lockes, who euer knockes.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. How now you secret, black, & midnight Hags?
-What is't you do?
-  All. A deed without a name
-
-   Macb. I coniure you, by that which you Professe,
-(How ere you come to know it) answer me:
-Though you vntye the Windes, and let them fight
-Against the Churches: Though the yesty Waues
-Confound and swallow Nauigation vp:
-Though bladed Corne be lodg'd, & Trees blown downe,
-Though Castles topple on their Warders heads:
-Though Pallaces, and Pyramids do slope
-Their heads to their Foundations: Though the treasure
-Of Natures Germaine, tumble altogether,
-Euen till destruction sicken: Answer me
-To what I aske you
-
-   1 Speake
-
-   2 Demand
-
-   3 Wee'l answer
-
-   1 Say, if th'hadst rather heare it from our mouthes,
-Or from our Masters
-
-   Macb. Call 'em: let me see 'em
-
-   1 Powre in Sowes blood, that hath eaten
-Her nine Farrow: Greaze that's sweaten
-From the Murderers Gibbet, throw
-Into the Flame
-
-   All. Come high or low:
-Thy Selfe and Office deaftly show.
-Thunder. 1. Apparation, an Armed Head.
-
-  Macb. Tell me, thou vnknowne power
-
-   1 He knowes thy thought:
-Heare his speech, but say thou nought
-
-   1 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth:
-Beware Macduffe,
-Beware the Thane of Fife: dismisse me. Enough.
-
-He Descends.
-
-  Macb. What ere thou art, for thy good caution, thanks
-Thou hast harp'd my feare aright. But one word more
-
-   1 He will not be commanded: heere's another
-More potent then the first.
-
-Thunder. 2 Apparition, a Bloody Childe.
-
-  2 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth
-
-   Macb. Had I three eares, Il'd heare thee
-
-   Appar. Be bloody, bold, & resolute:
-Laugh to scorne
-The powre of man: For none of woman borne
-Shall harme Macbeth.
-
-Descends.
-
-  Mac. Then liue Macduffe: what need I feare of thee?
-But yet Ile make assurance: double sure,
-And take a Bond of Fate: thou shalt not liue,
-That I may tell pale-hearted Feare, it lies;
-And sleepe in spight of Thunder.
-
-Thunder 3 Apparation, a Childe Crowned, with a Tree in his hand.
-
-What is this, that rises like the issue of a King,
-And weares vpon his Baby-brow, the round
-And top of Soueraignty?
-  All. Listen, but speake not too't
-
-   3 Appar. Be Lyon metled, proud, and take no care:
-Who chafes, who frets, or where Conspirers are:
-Macbeth shall neuer vanquish'd be, vntill
-Great Byrnam Wood, to high Dunsmane Hill
-Shall come against him.
-
-Descend.
-
-  Macb. That will neuer bee:
-Who can impresse the Forrest, bid the Tree
-Vnfixe his earth-bound Root? Sweet boadments, good:
-Rebellious dead, rise neuer till the Wood
-Of Byrnan rise, and our high plac'd Macbeth
-Shall liue the Lease of Nature, pay his breath
-To time, and mortall Custome. Yet my Hart
-Throbs to know one thing: Tell me, if your Art
-Can tell so much: Shall Banquo's issue euer
-Reigne in this Kingdome?
-  All. Seeke to know no more
-
-   Macb. I will be satisfied. Deny me this,
-And an eternall Curse fall on you: Let me know.
-Why sinkes that Caldron? & what noise is this?
-
-Hoboyes
-
-  1 Shew
-
-   2 Shew
-
-   3 Shew
-
-   All. Shew his Eyes, and greeue his Hart,
-Come like shadowes, so depart.
-
-A shew of eight Kings, and Banquo last, with a glasse in his hand.
-
-  Macb. Thou art too like the Spirit of Banquo: Down:
-Thy Crowne do's seare mine Eye-bals. And thy haire
-Thou other Gold-bound-brow, is like the first:
-A third, is like the former. Filthy Hagges,
-Why do you shew me this? - A fourth? Start eyes!
-What will the Line stretch out to'th' cracke of Doome?
-Another yet? A seauenth? Ile see no more:
-And yet the eighth appeares, who beares a glasse,
-Which shewes me many more: and some I see,
-That two-fold Balles, and trebble Scepters carry.
-Horrible sight: Now I see 'tis true,
-For the Blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles vpon me,
-And points at them for his. What? is this so?
-  1 I Sir, all this is so. But why
-Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
-Come Sisters, cheere we vp his sprights,
-And shew the best of our delights.
-Ile Charme the Ayre to giue a sound,
-While you performe your Antique round:
-That this great King may kindly say,
-Our duties, did his welcome pay.
-
-Musicke. The Witches Dance, and vanish.
-
-  Macb. Where are they? Gone?
-Let this pernitious houre,
-Stand aye accursed in the Kalender.
-Come in, without there.
-Enter Lenox.
-
-  Lenox. What's your Graces will
-
-   Macb. Saw you the Weyard Sisters?
-  Lenox. No my Lord
-
-   Macb. Came they not by you?
-  Lenox. No indeed my Lord
-
-   Macb. Infected be the Ayre whereon they ride,
-And damn'd all those that trust them. I did heare
-The gallopping of Horse. Who was't came by?
-  Len. 'Tis two or three my Lord, that bring you word:
-Macduff is fled to England
-
-   Macb. Fled to England?
-  Len. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
-The flighty purpose neuer is o're-tooke
-Vnlesse the deed go with it. From this moment,
-The very firstlings of my heart shall be
-The firstlings of my hand. And euen now
-To Crown my thoughts with Acts: be it thoght & done:
-The Castle of Macduff, I will surprize.
-Seize vpon Fife; giue to th' edge o'th' Sword
-His Wife, his Babes, and all vnfortunate Soules
-That trace him in his Line. No boasting like a Foole,
-This deed Ile do, before this purpose coole,
-But no more sights. Where are these Gentlemen?
-Come bring me where they are.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macduffes Wife, her Son, and Rosse.
-
-  Wife. What had he done, to make him fly the Land?
-  Rosse. You must haue patience Madam
-
-   Wife. He had none:
-His flight was madnesse: when our Actions do not,
-Our feares do make vs Traitors
-
-   Rosse. You know not
-Whether it was his wisedome, or his feare
-
-   Wife. Wisedom? to leaue his wife, to leaue his Babes,
-His Mansion, and his Titles, in a place
-From whence himselfe do's flye? He loues vs not,
-He wants the naturall touch. For the poore Wren
-(The most diminitiue of Birds) will fight,
-Her yo

<TRUNCATED>

[07/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/orders.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/orders.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/orders.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index d60df82..0000000
--- a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/orders.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,5 +0,0 @@
-222|Toilet plunger
-333|Toilet brush
-222|Toilet paper
-111|Corn flakes
-555|Not ordered
\ No newline at end of file

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set1.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set1.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set1.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 3b67f57..0000000
--- a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set1.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,4 +0,0 @@
-b
-c
-a
-e
\ No newline at end of file

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set2.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set2.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set2.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 8169ab5..0000000
--- a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/set2.txt
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@@ -1,3 +0,0 @@
-c
-d
-a
\ No newline at end of file

[16/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/maugham.txt b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 16c45e8..0000000
--- a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,29112 +0,0 @@
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
-
-
-Title: Of Human Bondage
-
-Author: W. Somerset Maugham
-
-Release Date: May 6, 2008 [EBook #351]
-
-Language: English
-
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OF HUMAN BONDAGE ***
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-OF HUMAN BONDAGE
-
-
-BY
-
-W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
-
-
-
-
-I
-
-The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a
-rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room
-in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced
-mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and
-went to the child's bed.
-
-"Wake up, Philip," she said.
-
-She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him
-downstairs. He was only half awake.
-
-"Your mother wants you," she said.
-
-She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over
-to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out
-her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had
-been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt
-the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer
-to herself.
-
-"Are you sleepy, darling?" she said.
-
-Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great
-distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very
-happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to
-make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he
-kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep.
-The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side.
-
-"Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned.
-
-The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would
-not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again;
-and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held
-the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly
-passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob.
-
-"What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired."
-
-She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
-The doctor bent down.
-
-"Let me take him."
-
-She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor
-handed him back to his nurse.
-
-"You'd better put him back in his own bed."
-
-"Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His
-mother sobbed now broken-heartedly.
-
-"What will happen to him, poor child?"
-
-The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the
-crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room,
-upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted
-the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the
-woman guessed what he was doing.
-
-"Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse.
-
-"Another boy."
-
-The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She
-approached the bed.
-
-"Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the
-doctor felt his patient's pulse once more.
-
-"I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call
-again after breakfast."
-
-"I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse.
-
-They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped.
-
-"You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?"
-
-"Yes, sir."
-
-"D'you know at what time he'll be here?"
-
-"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram."
-
-"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way."
-
-"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir."
-
-"Who's she?"
-
-"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?"
-
-The doctor shook his head.
-
-
-
-II
-
-It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room
-at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to
-amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each
-of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each
-arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout
-chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he
-could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the
-curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of
-buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open,
-he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand
-piled away a chair and the cushions fell down.
-
-"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you."
-
-"Hulloa, Emma!" he said.
-
-The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions,
-and put them back in their places.
-
-"Am I to come home?" he asked.
-
-"Yes, I've come to fetch you."
-
-"You've got a new dress on."
-
-It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of
-black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had
-three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She
-hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could
-not give the answer she had prepared.
-
-"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length.
-
-"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?"
-
-Now she was ready.
-
-"Your mamma is quite well and happy."
-
-"Oh, I am glad."
-
-"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not
-know what she meant.
-
-"Why not?"
-
-"Your mamma's in heaven."
-
-She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried
-too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features.
-She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in
-London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her
-emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the
-pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite
-unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers.
-But in a little while she pulled herself together.
-
-"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say
-good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home."
-
-"I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide
-his tears.
-
-"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat."
-
-He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall.
-He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He
-paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends,
-and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would
-be sorry for him.
-
-"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin."
-
-"I think you'd better," said Emma.
-
-"Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said.
-
-He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door
-and walked in. He heard her speak.
-
-"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss."
-
-There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in.
-Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In
-those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much
-gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an
-elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies,
-whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously.
-
-"My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms.
-
-She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to
-luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak.
-
-"I've got to go home," said Philip, at last.
-
-He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again.
-Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange
-ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission.
-Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would
-have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they
-expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out
-of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the
-basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta
-Watkin's voice.
-
-"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's
-dead."
-
-"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I
-knew it would upset you."
-
-Then one of the strangers spoke.
-
-"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world.
-I see he limps."
-
-"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother."
-
-Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where
-to go.
-
-
-
-III
-
-
-When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary,
-respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street,
-Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing
-letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which
-had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the
-hall-table.
-
-"Here's Master Philip," said Emma.
-
-Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on
-second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of
-somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair,
-worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was
-clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine
-that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a
-gold cross.
-
-"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you
-like that?"
-
-Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after
-an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an
-attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt.
-
-"Yes."
-
-"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother."
-
-The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer.
-
-"Your dear mother left you in my charge."
-
-Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that
-his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way
-thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if
-her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over
-fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was
-childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a
-small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his
-sister-in-law.
-
-"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said.
-
-"With Emma?"
-
-The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.
-
-"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey.
-
-"But I want Emma to come with me."
-
-Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey
-looked at them helplessly.
-
-"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment."
-
-"Very good, sir."
-
-Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took
-the boy on his knee and put his arm round him.
-
-"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must
-see about sending you to school."
-
-"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated.
-
-"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and
-I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend."
-
-Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's
-father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments
-suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden
-death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more
-than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house
-in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in
-delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and
-accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her
-furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a
-furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience
-till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of
-money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered
-circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way
-and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than
-two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn
-his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was
-sobbing still.
-
-"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console
-the child better than anyone.
-
-Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped
-him.
-
-"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon,
-and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all
-your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by
-you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be
-sold."
-
-The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he
-turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was
-a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially
-seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered
-from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead
-woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon
-herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have
-dismissed her.
-
-But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though
-his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own
-son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft
-words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that
-she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was
-going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike
-on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and
-there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his
-tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey.
-Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped
-her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to
-gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily.
-
-But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in
-which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered
-then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his
-father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take.
-
-"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy."
-
-"Uncle William's there."
-
-"Never mind that. They're your own things now."
-
-Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left
-the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short
-a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him.
-It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy.
-But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the
-landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his
-mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately
-upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and
-listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that
-it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat
-uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the
-handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from
-hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold
-for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened
-now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were
-drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark.
-On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a
-little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the
-chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when
-his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something
-curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were
-going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a
-night-dress.
-
-Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took
-as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They
-smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers,
-filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender
-bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The
-strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had
-just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come
-upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on
-his lips.
-
-It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply
-because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on
-the pillow. He lay there quite still.
-
-
-
-IV
-
-
-Philip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused
-him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was
-sixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set
-out to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than
-five minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the
-gate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and
-it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it.
-They walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by
-visitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went
-up to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a
-side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for
-beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a
-red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical
-style. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room
-windows were gothic.
-
-Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the
-drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she
-went to the door.
-
-"There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and give her
-a kiss."
-
-Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then
-stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her
-husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale
-blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion
-of her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold
-chain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice.
-
-"Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her
-husband.
-
-"I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew.
-
-"It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the child.
-
-"No. I always walk."
-
-He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to
-come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow
-tiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An
-imposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a
-peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church
-was reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with
-emblems of the Four Evangelists.
-
-"I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your
-journey," said Mrs. Carey.
-
-It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if
-the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if
-Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid,
-didn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they
-must keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the
-dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not
-get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on
-Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the
-study so that he could write his sermon.
-
-Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that
-looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large
-tree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it
-was possible to climb quite high up it.
-
-"A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be frightened
-at sleeping alone?"
-
-"Oh, no."
-
-On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs.
-Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some
-uncertainty.
-
-"Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?"
-
-"I can wash myself," he answered firmly.
-
-"Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said Mrs. Carey.
-
-She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should
-come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat
-him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found
-herself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be
-noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys.
-Mrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back
-and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could
-pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for
-tea.
-
-The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of
-it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle;
-and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it.
-In one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs
-covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and
-was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife.
-Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that
-was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair
-had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it.
-
-Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out
-to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and
-polished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was
-much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the
-Curate.
-
-"What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey.
-
-"I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your
-journey."
-
-Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She
-seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year,
-and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two,
-he went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually
-managed to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for
-the exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in
-the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for
-a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do.
-
-"I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann.
-
-She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book
-from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on
-Philip's chair.
-
-"Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked
-tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?"
-
-Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant.
-
-"I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top,
-Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men
-like ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship."
-
-"I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa.
-
-Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut
-the top off his egg.
-
-"There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if you like."
-
-Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so
-took what he could.
-
-"How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the Vicar.
-
-"Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day."
-
-"How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle.
-
-"Very much, thank you."
-
-"You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon."
-
-Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be
-fortified for the evening service.
-
-
-
-V
-
-
-Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by
-fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a
-good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father
-had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant
-career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began
-to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson
-set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription,
-he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey,
-thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with
-mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to
-give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by
-a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a
-patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations,
-but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding.
-The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with
-reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great
-beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a
-hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers
-among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he
-deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he
-told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept
-hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the
-dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at
-luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the
-vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar
-felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume
-the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was
-practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends
-now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it
-was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to
-itself: she had no more idea of money than a child.
-
-When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which
-seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the
-breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the
-late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the
-parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed
-the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than
-usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was
-thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.
-There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember.
-The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this
-was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent,
-and he could not imagine who had ordered them.
-
-"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked.
-
-"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin
-scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember
-me by when he grows up."
-
-Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear
-treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him.
-
-"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said
-Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."
-
-He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to
-be taken.
-
-One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better
-than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had
-taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:
-suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear
-seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was
-expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be
-expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow
-up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately,
-because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had
-no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years
-before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He
-could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called
-her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,
-and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to
-struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had
-been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the
-soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the
-ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when
-she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never
-do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep
-rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt,
-but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of
-a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself
-in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had
-never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her
-beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not
-afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired;
-and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas
-before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped
-downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove
-to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to
-ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant,
-seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she
-insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove
-back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with
-all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.
-
-She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran
-down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her
-room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and
-the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting
-anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and
-reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for,
-and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She
-fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained
-unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched
-her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day,
-when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of
-her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither
-of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they
-were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in
-his memory.
-
-"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up."
-
-"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would
-have done."
-
-
-
-VI
-
-
-One day was very like another at the vicarage.
-
-Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it
-with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took
-it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then
-it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it
-late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was
-making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the
-Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to
-do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing
-village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank,
-the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round
-the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor
-people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs.
-Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to
-the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this
-fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had
-never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street:
-he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent
-their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for
-dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the
-town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers;
-Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the
-difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to
-church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with
-both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of
-going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher
-who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come
-to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was
-very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity
-further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat
-was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often
-stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager,
-who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man
-with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip
-he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats
-for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish
-church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led
-was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit
-from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the
-Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no
-hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory
-consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be
-saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really
-seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish.
-Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care
-he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey
-advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his
-fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in
-the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged
-himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back.
-
-Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey
-still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate
-had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and
-Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission
-Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few
-words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the
-chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views
-upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a
-churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He
-reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was
-the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to
-recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics,
-and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had
-enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To
-this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his
-purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were
-not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political
-meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and
-for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable
-place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was
-little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in
-a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and
-that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His
-sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of
-the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby
-linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in
-his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts
-of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first
-moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in
-life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they
-met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put
-the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her
-brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these
-gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of
-anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but
-they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held
-at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey
-and Josiah Graves both made speeches.
-
-When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally
-went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies
-talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr.
-Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least
-five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in
-the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with
-the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never
-opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had
-a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with
-banking.
-
-Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they
-continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a
-side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt
-(and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and
-nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in
-on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood
-for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who
-knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for
-flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They
-looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram
-the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home.
-
-Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it
-consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and
-Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the
-afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by
-his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of
-French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany
-the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used
-to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs
-by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was
-asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage.
-There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their
-parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr.
-Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of
-Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the
-Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony.
-
-But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset
-them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They
-preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon.
-Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like
-losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary
-Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to
-clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a
-little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat.
-Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then
-Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and
-after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress
-himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs.
-Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She
-then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey
-continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got
-up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed.
-
-When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening
-he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water,
-since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two
-persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in
-Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary
-Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to
-begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday,
-because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired
-after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for
-the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for
-Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night:
-what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't
-know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday
-night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey
-was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But
-the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's
-Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after
-eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they
-might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to
-bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said
-she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he
-should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the
-Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly
-washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night.
-
-
-
-VII
-
-
-Sunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say
-that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week.
-
-The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a
-poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at
-the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she
-got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her
-husband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers
-were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After
-breakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip
-was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a
-marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was
-thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was
-regulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and
-on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were
-most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not
-so fine that people wanted to hurry away.
-
-Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood
-in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten
-the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took
-several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a
-voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his
-face as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the
-arena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife
-could not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black
-satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time,
-but on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then,
-in conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink
-rose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he
-said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed
-as a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage
-when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew
-that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house,
-and no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary
-Ann, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She
-hurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of
-sherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed
-in the carriage, and they set off.
-
-The fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw.
-They drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch
-cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and
-while the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled
-themselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the
-sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip
-threepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the
-service began.
-
-Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a
-gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained
-interest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the
-plate.
-
-When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few
-words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went
-to the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their
-surplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and
-told him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it
-seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved
-him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies,
-sixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one
-put in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes
-there was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was
-always a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But
-Miss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that
-the stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the
-drive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his
-mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates
-Society. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey
-remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and
-somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the
-vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner.
-
-When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay
-down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks.
-
-They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for
-evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she
-read the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the
-evening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the
-darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church
-with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very
-friendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew
-used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more
-easily for the feeling of protection.
-
-They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for
-him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one
-the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully
-tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann
-undressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to
-love her.
-
-
-
-VIII
-
-
-Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his
-loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother
-lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of
-thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at
-eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it;
-but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her
-master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off
-Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories
-of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the
-harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One
-evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was
-afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil
-communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who
-were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable
-in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took
-his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like
-disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be
-untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he
-fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he
-went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her
-heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his
-affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her
-demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes
-she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she
-went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann
-explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she
-heard, and she smiled with constraint.
-
-"He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when she
-returned to her sewing.
-
-"One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into
-shape."
-
-On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred.
-Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the
-drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah
-Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which
-the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in
-Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said
-they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had
-been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the
-Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for
-the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate
-than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his
-secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the
-line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a
-Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they
-were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best,
-the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think
-that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he
-had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often
-related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays
-upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was
-sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to
-preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having
-decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an
-election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue
-letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to
-prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his
-mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the
-candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or
-twice irritably.
-
-Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his
-face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the
-dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around
-him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation
-had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin.
-
-"What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed
-to play games on Sunday."
-
-Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit
-was, flushed deeply.
-
-"I always used to play at home," he answered.
-
-"I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as
-that."
-
-Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be
-supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not
-answer.
-
-"Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you
-suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight,
-and how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws
-in the afternoon?"
-
-Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him
-while Philip did so.
-
-"You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you're
-causing your poor mother in heaven."
-
-Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to
-letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent
-the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to
-turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage
-was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one
-saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green
-fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip
-felt infinitely unhappy.
-
-Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the
-stairs.
-
-"Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked.
-
-"No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a
-wink."
-
-This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own
-thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made
-a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept
-before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar
-narrated the facts.
-
-"He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished.
-
-"Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the
-child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be.
-
-Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not
-know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any
-expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined
-to cry, but no word would issue from his lips.
-
-"You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey.
-
-Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously
-now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his
-uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got
-his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said:
-
-"I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in
-a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God."
-
-Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was
-placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his
-uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual
-went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip.
-
-"Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and
-then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening."
-
-She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room.
-
-"Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the
-hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?"
-
-Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would
-not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with
-him.
-
-"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked
-helplessly.
-
-Philip broke his silence at last.
-
-"I want to be left alone," he said.
-
-"Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your
-uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?"
-
-"I hate you. I wish you was dead."
-
-Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a
-start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as
-she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her
-eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even
-though it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could
-scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached
-so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her
-cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief,
-and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was
-crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her
-silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her
-without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin,
-shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little
-boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart
-would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt
-that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new
-love because he had made her suffer.
-
-
-
-IX
-
-
-On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go
-into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were
-conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip
-asked:
-
-"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?"
-
-"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?"
-
-"I can't sit still till tea-time."
-
-Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could
-not suggest that Philip should go into the garden.
-
-"I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day."
-
-He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and
-turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted.
-
-"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in
-to tea you shall have the top of my egg."
-
-Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had
-bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him.
-
-"The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey.
-
-He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful
-blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened
-his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the
-sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought
-him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his
-feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes,
-and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The
-Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep.
-He snored softly.
-
-It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the
-words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the
-works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal
-life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began
-saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him,
-and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more
-than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering:
-there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long
-twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in
-the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside
-his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by
-tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not
-try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory.
-
-Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so
-wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his
-collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle.
-His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in
-the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about
-to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a
-little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door.
-She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and
-then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had
-put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was
-sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders.
-Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the
-child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now
-she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his
-fillings: he hid himself to weep.
-
-Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she
-burst into the drawing-room.
-
-"William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would
-break."
-
-Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs.
-
-"What's he got to cry about?"
-
-"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you
-think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do."
-
-Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless.
-
-"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more
-than ten lines."
-
-"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William?
-There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in
-that."
-
-"Very well, I don't mind."
-
-Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only
-passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two
-in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty
-volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading,
-but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were
-illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them
-he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon
-with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some
-battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel
-engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine.
-She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to
-compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him
-in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went
-in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands
-so that she might not see he had been crying.
-
-"Do you know the collect yet?" she said.
-
-He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his
-voice. She was oddly embarrassed.
-
-"I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp.
-
-"Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture
-books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them
-together."
-
-Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so
-that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him.
-
-"Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born."
-
-She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets.
-In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting
-two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if
-he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads.
-
-"Read what it says," he asked.
-
-Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic
-narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but
-fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that
-followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted
-her.
-
-"I want to see another picture."
-
-When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth.
-Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations.
-It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for
-tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart;
-he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the
-book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with
-her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this
-eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of
-Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed
-itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more
-books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he
-kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip
-took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to
-read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it
-was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys.
-
-Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps
-because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he
-found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart
-beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but
-there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his
-imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a
-Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic
-vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored
-at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the
-darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat
-went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last
-to some strange mansion.
-
-One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of
-The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the
-illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that
-dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again
-and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him.
-He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner.
-Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of
-reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge
-from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating
-for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day
-a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other
-things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he
-occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble
-themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know
-them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one
-time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and
-homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories
-of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last
-discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The
-Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then
-many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding
-along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe.
-
-The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a
-hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And
-here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the
-vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July;
-August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the
-collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the
-Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for
-they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London
-with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman
-who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go
-and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was
-afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was
-going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved
-from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel.
-
-
-
-X
-
-
-The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at
-Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united
-by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon,
-and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to
-aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an
-honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was
-attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr.
-Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of
-September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew
-little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's
-Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little.
-
-When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with
-apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The
-high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There
-was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy,
-untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They
-were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly
-furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a
-forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster.
-
-"What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while.
-
-"You'll see for yourself."
-
-There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not
-come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again.
-
-"Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said.
-
-Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into
-the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet
-high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked
-loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror
-in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's
-small hand in his.
-
-"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted.
-
-Philip reddened and found no word to answer.
-
-"How old are you?"
-
-"Nine," said Philip.
-
-"You must say sir," said his uncle.
-
-"I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed
-cheerily.
-
-To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers.
-Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch.
-
-"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that,
-won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't
-feel so strange."
-
-Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with
-black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and
-a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular
-coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still.
-Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly
-push towards her.
-
-"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey."
-
-Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not
-speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and
-what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little
-embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two
-got up.
-
-"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now."
-
-"That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on
-like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?"
-
-Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great
-bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away.
-
-"Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the
-school-room."
-
-He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly
-limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables
-that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms.
-
-"Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the
-playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself."
-
-Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with
-high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron
-railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the
-buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately,
-kicking up the gravel as he walked.
-
-"Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?"
-
-The small boy came forward and shook hands.
-
-"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully
-him."
-
-The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear
-by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them.
-
-"What's your name?"
-
-"Carey."
-
-"What's your father?"
-
-"He's dead."
-
-"Oh! Does your mother wash?"
-
-"My mother's dead, too."
-
-Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but
-Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little.
-
-"Well, did she wash?" he went on.
-
-"Yes," said Philip indignantly.
-
-"She was a washerwoman then?"
-
-"No, she wasn't."
-
-"Then she didn't wash."
-
-The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then
-he caught sight of Philip's feet.
-
-"What's the matter with your foot?"
-
-Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the
-one which was whole.
-
-"I've got a club-foot," he answered.
-
-"How did you get it?"
-
-"I've always had it."
-
-"Let's have a look."
-
-"No."
-
-"Don't then."
-
-The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin,
-which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was
-so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the
-surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence
-of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and
-he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit
-anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third
-boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed
-that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his
-feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable.
-
-But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to
-talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what
-wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these
-presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was
-anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to
-say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite
-willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket.
-
-"No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot."
-
-The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had
-asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at
-Philip awkwardly.
-
-
-
-XI
-
-
-Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his
-cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he
-was.
-
-"Are you awake, Singer?"
-
-The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was
-a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of
-ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was
-aired in the morning.
-
-Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning,
-and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his
-prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than
-if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was
-beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the
-discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for
-the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his
-washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and
-a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily
-while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and
-they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of
-the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his
-wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an
-impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice
-as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip
-listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and
-the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two
-large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and
-butter.
-
-Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the
-bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and
-followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which
-they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or
-bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey
-whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think
-boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered
-nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some
-parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it.
-
-Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up
-his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them.
-
-After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the
-day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of
-the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as
-the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into
-school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two
-under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one,
-leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To
-attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known
-officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower
-second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a
-pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the
-time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven
-and they were let out for ten minutes' rest.
-
-The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were
-told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along
-opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran
-from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was
-seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he
-became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still
-free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp
-gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made
-straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant
-idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to
-laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping
-grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They
-lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with
-helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as
-he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got
-up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if
-another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of
-Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck
-the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the
-ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He
-could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that
-he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been
-in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him,
-mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he
-did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using
-all his strength to prevent himself from crying.
-
-Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee
-was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice
-could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange
-novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his
-feet. He tucked them under the bench.
-
-In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped
-Philip on the way out after dinner.
-
-"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him.
-
-Philip blushed self-consciously.
-
-"No, sir."
-
-"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that,
-can't you?"
-
-Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same.
-
-"Yes, sir."
-
-The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he
-had not changed, asked why he was not going to play.
-
-"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip.
-
-"Why?"
-
-There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of
-shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the
-reply.
-
-"He's got a club-foot, sir."
-
-"Oh, I see."
-
-Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and
-he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but
-he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud.
-
-"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you."
-
-Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in
-groups of two or three.
-
-"You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know
-the way, do you?"
-
-Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.
-
-"I can't go very fast, sir."
-
-"Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile.
-
-Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said
-a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.
-
-But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was
-called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's.
-
-"I say, let's look at your foot," he said.
-
-"No," answered Philip.
-
-He jumped into bed quickly.
-
-"Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason."
-
-The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words
-he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off
-him, but he held them tightly.
-
-"Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried.
-
-Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched
-on the blanket. Philip cried out.
-
-"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?"
-
-"I won't."
-
-In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him,
-but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn
-it.
-
-"Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm."
-
-"Stop still then and put out your foot."
-
-Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The
-pain was unendurable.
-
-"All right. I'll do it," said Philip.
-
-He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He
-looked curiously at the deformity.
-
-"Isn't it beastly?" said Mason.
-
-Another came in and looked too.
-
-"Ugh," he said, in disgust.
-
-"My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?"
-
-He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautio

<TRUNCATED>

[03/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/orders.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-test/src/main/resources/orders.txt b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/orders.txt
new file mode 100644
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--- /dev/null
+++ b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/orders.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
+222|Toilet plunger
+333|Toilet brush
+222|Toilet paper
+111|Corn flakes
+555|Not ordered
\ No newline at end of file

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/set1.txt
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@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
+b
+c
+a
+e
\ No newline at end of file

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/set2.txt
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@@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
+c
+d
+a
\ No newline at end of file

[06/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/shakes.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/shakes.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/shakes.txt
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--- a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/shakes.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,3667 +0,0 @@
-***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
-********************The Tragedie of Macbeth*********************
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-The Tragedie of Macbeth
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-*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
-
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-
-
-Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-
-
-
-
-Executive Director's Notes:
-
-In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think all
-the spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time have
-been corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as they
-are presented herein:
-
-  Barnardo. Who's there?
-  Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold
-your selfe
-
-   Bar. Long liue the King
-
-***
-
-As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words
-or letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . .this is the
-original meaning of the term cliche. . .and thus, being unwilling
-to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions
-that look very odd. . .such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,
-above. . .and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming
-Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . .
-
-The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a
-time when they were out of "v"'s. . .possibly having used "vv" in
-place of some "w"'s, etc.  This was a common practice of the day,
-as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend
-more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
-
-You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I
-have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an
-extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a
-very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare.  My father read an
-assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University
-in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the
-purpose.  To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available
-. . .in great detail. . .and determined from the various changes,
-that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a
-variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous
-for signing his name with several different spellings.
-
-So, please take this into account when reading the comments below
-made by our volunteer who prepared this file:  you may see errors
-that are "not" errors. . . .
-
-So. . .with this caveat. . .we have NOT changed the canon errors,
-here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie 
-of Macbeth.
-
-Michael S. Hart
-Project Gutenberg
-Executive Director
-
-
-***
-
-
-Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't.  This was taken from
-a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can
-come in ASCII to the printed text.
-
-The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the
-conjoined ae have been changed to ae.  I have left the spelling,
-punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the
-printed text.  I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put
-together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the
-Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified
-spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded
-abbreviations as I have come across them.  Everything within
-brackets [] is what I have added.  So if you don't like that
-you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a
-purer Shakespeare.
-
-Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual
-differences between various copies of the first folio.  So there may
-be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between
-this and other first folio editions.  This is due to the printer's
-habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and
-then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then
-continuing the printing run.  The proof run wasn't thrown away but
-incorporated into the printed copies.  This is just the way it is.
-The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different
-First Folio editions' best pages.
-
-If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuation
-errors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feel
-free to email me those errors.  I wish to make this the best
-etext possible.  My email address for right now are haradda@aol.com
-and davidr@inconnect.com.  I hope that you enjoy this.
-
-David Reed
-
-The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
-
-Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.
-
-  1. When shall we three meet againe?
-In Thunder, Lightning, or in Raine?
-  2. When the Hurley-burley's done,
-When the Battaile's lost, and wonne
-
-   3. That will be ere the set of Sunne
-
-   1. Where the place?
-  2. Vpon the Heath
-
-   3. There to meet with Macbeth
-
-   1. I come, Gray-Malkin
-
-   All. Padock calls anon: faire is foule, and foule is faire,
-Houer through the fogge and filthie ayre.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Alarum within. Enter King Malcome, Donalbaine, Lenox, with
-attendants,
-meeting a bleeding Captaine.
-
-  King. What bloody man is that? he can report,
-As seemeth by his plight, of the Reuolt
-The newest state
-
-   Mal. This is the Serieant,
-Who like a good and hardie Souldier fought
-'Gainst my Captiuitie: Haile braue friend;
-Say to the King, the knowledge of the Broyle,
-As thou didst leaue it
-
-   Cap. Doubtfull it stood,
-As two spent Swimmers, that doe cling together,
-And choake their Art: The mercilesse Macdonwald
-(Worthie to be a Rebell, for to that
-The multiplying Villanies of Nature
-Doe swarme vpon him) from the Westerne Isles
-Of Kernes and Gallowgrosses is supply'd,
-And Fortune on his damned Quarry smiling,
-Shew'd like a Rebells Whore: but all's too weake:
-For braue Macbeth (well hee deserues that Name)
-Disdayning Fortune, with his brandisht Steele,
-Which smoak'd with bloody execution
-(Like Valours Minion) caru'd out his passage,
-Till hee fac'd the Slaue:
-Which neu'r shooke hands, nor bad farwell to him,
-Till he vnseam'd him from the Naue toth' Chops,
-And fix'd his Head vpon our Battlements
-
-   King. O valiant Cousin, worthy Gentleman
-
-   Cap. As whence the Sunne 'gins his reflection,
-Shipwracking Stormes, and direfull Thunders:
-So from that Spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,
-Discomfort swells: Marke King of Scotland, marke,
-No sooner Iustice had, with Valour arm'd,
-Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their heeles,
-But the Norweyan Lord, surueying vantage,
-With furbusht Armes, and new supplyes of men,
-Began a fresh assault
-
-   King. Dismay'd not this our Captaines, Macbeth and
-Banquoh?
-  Cap. Yes, as Sparrowes, Eagles;
-Or the Hare, the Lyon:
-If I say sooth, I must report they were
-As Cannons ouer-charg'd with double Cracks,
-So they doubly redoubled stroakes vpon the Foe:
-Except they meant to bathe in reeking Wounds,
-Or memorize another Golgotha,
-I cannot tell: but I am faint,
-My Gashes cry for helpe
-
-   King. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds,
-They smack of Honor both: Goe get him Surgeons.
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-Who comes here?
-  Mal. The worthy Thane of Rosse
-
-   Lenox. What a haste lookes through his eyes?
-So should he looke, that seemes to speake things strange
-
-   Rosse. God saue the King
-
-   King. Whence cam'st thou, worthy Thane?
-  Rosse. From Fiffe, great King,
-Where the Norweyan Banners flowt the Skie,
-And fanne our people cold.
-Norway himselfe, with terrible numbers,
-Assisted by that most disloyall Traytor,
-The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismall Conflict,
-Till that Bellona's Bridegroome, lapt in proofe,
-Confronted him with selfe-comparisons,
-Point against Point, rebellious Arme 'gainst Arme,
-Curbing his lauish spirit: and to conclude,
-The Victorie fell on vs
-
-   King. Great happinesse
-
-   Rosse. That now Sweno, the Norwayes King,
-Craues composition:
-Nor would we deigne him buriall of his men,
-Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes ynch,
-Ten thousand Dollars, to our generall vse
-
-   King. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceiue
-Our Bosome interest: Goe pronounce his present death,
-And with his former Title greet Macbeth
-
-   Rosse. Ile see it done
-
-   King. What he hath lost, Noble Macbeth hath wonne.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1. Where hast thou beene, Sister?
-  2. Killing Swine
-
-   3. Sister, where thou?
-  1. A Saylors Wife had Chestnuts in her Lappe,
-And mouncht, & mouncht, and mouncht:
-Giue me, quoth I.
-Aroynt thee, Witch, the rumpe-fed Ronyon cryes.
-Her Husband's to Aleppo gone, Master o'th' Tiger:
-But in a Syue Ile thither sayle,
-And like a Rat without a tayle,
-Ile doe, Ile doe, and Ile doe
-
-   2. Ile giue thee a Winde
-
-   1. Th'art kinde
-
-   3. And I another
-
-   1. I my selfe haue all the other,
-And the very Ports they blow,
-All the Quarters that they know,
-I'th' Ship-mans Card.
-Ile dreyne him drie as Hay:
-Sleepe shall neyther Night nor Day
-Hang vpon his Pent-house Lid:
-He shall liue a man forbid:
-Wearie Seu'nights, nine times nine,
-Shall he dwindle, peake, and pine:
-Though his Barke cannot be lost,
-Yet it shall be Tempest-tost.
-Looke what I haue
-
-   2. Shew me, shew me
-
-   1. Here I haue a Pilots Thumbe,
-Wrackt, as homeward he did come.
-
-Drum within.
-
-  3. A Drumme, a Drumme:
-Macbeth doth come
-
-   All. The weyward Sisters, hand in hand,
-Posters of the Sea and Land,
-Thus doe goe, about, about,
-Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
-And thrice againe, to make vp nine.
-Peace, the Charme's wound vp.
-Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
-
-  Macb. So foule and faire a day I haue not seene
-
-   Banquo. How farre is't call'd to Soris? What are these,
-So wither'd, and so wilde in their attyre,
-That looke not like th' Inhabitants o'th' Earth,
-And yet are on't? Liue you, or are you aught
-That man may question? you seeme to vnderstand me,
-By each at once her choppie finger laying
-Vpon her skinnie Lips: you should be Women,
-And yet your Beards forbid me to interprete
-That you are so
-
-   Mac. Speake if you can: what are you?
-  1. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Glamis
-
-   2. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Cawdor
-
-   3. All haile Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter
-
-   Banq. Good Sir, why doe you start, and seeme to feare
-Things that doe sound so faire? i'th' name of truth
-Are ye fantasticall, or that indeed
-Which outwardly ye shew? My Noble Partner
-You greet with present Grace, and great prediction
-Of Noble hauing, and of Royall hope,
-That he seemes wrapt withall: to me you speake not.
-If you can looke into the Seedes of Time,
-And say, which Graine will grow, and which will not,
-Speake then to me, who neyther begge, nor feare
-Your fauors, nor your hate
-
-   1. Hayle
-
-   2. Hayle
-
-   3. Hayle
-
-   1. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater
-
-   2. Not so happy, yet much happyer
-
-   3. Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none:
-So all haile Macbeth, and Banquo
-
-   1. Banquo, and Macbeth, all haile
-
-   Macb. Stay you imperfect Speakers, tell me more:
-By Sinells death, I know I am Thane of Glamis,
-But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor liues
-A prosperous Gentleman: And to be King,
-Stands not within the prospect of beleefe,
-No more then to be Cawdor. Say from whence
-You owe this strange Intelligence, or why
-Vpon this blasted Heath you stop our way
-With such Prophetique greeting?
-Speake, I charge you.
-
-Witches vanish.
-
-  Banq. The Earth hath bubbles, as the Water ha's,
-And these are of them: whither are they vanish'd?
-  Macb. Into the Ayre: and what seem'd corporall,
-Melted, as breath into the Winde.
-Would they had stay'd
-
-   Banq. Were such things here, as we doe speake about?
-Or haue we eaten on the insane Root,
-That takes the Reason Prisoner?
-  Macb. Your Children shall be Kings
-
-   Banq. You shall be King
-
-   Macb. And Thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?
-  Banq. Toth' selfe-same tune and words: who's here?
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-  Rosse. The King hath happily receiu'd, Macbeth,
-The newes of thy successe: and when he reades
-Thy personall Venture in the Rebels sight,
-His Wonders and his Prayses doe contend,
-Which should be thine, or his: silenc'd with that,
-In viewing o're the rest o'th' selfe-same day,
-He findes thee in the stout Norweyan Rankes,
-Nothing afeard of what thy selfe didst make
-Strange Images of death, as thick as Tale
-Can post with post, and euery one did beare
-Thy prayses in his Kingdomes great defence,
-And powr'd them downe before him
-
-   Ang. Wee are sent,
-To giue thee from our Royall Master thanks,
-Onely to harrold thee into his sight,
-Not pay thee
-
-   Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater Honor,
-He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:
-In which addition, haile most worthy Thane,
-For it is thine
-
-   Banq. What, can the Deuill speake true?
-  Macb. The Thane of Cawdor liues:
-Why doe you dresse me in borrowed Robes?
-  Ang. Who was the Thane, liues yet,
-But vnder heauie Iudgement beares that Life,
-Which he deserues to loose.
-Whether he was combin'd with those of Norway,
-Or did lyne the Rebell with hidden helpe,
-And vantage; or that with both he labour'd
-In his Countreyes wracke, I know not:
-But Treasons Capitall, confess'd, and prou'd,
-Haue ouerthrowne him
-
-   Macb. Glamys, and Thane of Cawdor:
-The greatest is behinde. Thankes for your paines.
-Doe you not hope your Children shall be Kings,
-When those that gaue the Thane of Cawdor to me,
-Promis'd no lesse to them
-
-   Banq. That trusted home,
-Might yet enkindle you vnto the Crowne,
-Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:
-And oftentimes, to winne vs to our harme,
-The Instruments of Darknesse tell vs Truths,
-Winne vs with honest Trifles, to betray's
-In deepest consequence.
-Cousins, a word, I pray you
-
-   Macb. Two Truths are told,
-As happy Prologues to the swelling Act
-Of the Imperiall Theame. I thanke you Gentlemen:
-This supernaturall solliciting
-Cannot be ill; cannot be good.
-If ill? why hath it giuen me earnest of successe,
-Commencing in a Truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
-If good? why doe I yeeld to that suggestion,
-Whose horrid Image doth vnfixe my Heire,
-And make my seated Heart knock at my Ribbes,
-Against the vse of Nature? Present Feares
-Are lesse then horrible Imaginings:
-My Thought, whose Murther yet is but fantasticall,
-Shakes so my single state of Man,
-That Function is smother'd in surmise,
-And nothing is, but what is not
-
-   Banq. Looke how our Partner's rapt
-
-   Macb. If Chance will haue me King,
-Why Chance may Crowne me,
-Without my stirre
-
-   Banq. New Honors come vpon him
-Like our strange Garments, cleaue not to their mould,
-But with the aid of vse
-
-   Macb. Come what come may,
-Time, and the Houre, runs through the roughest Day
-
-   Banq. Worthy Macbeth, wee stay vpon your leysure
-
-   Macb. Giue me your fauour:
-My dull Braine was wrought with things forgotten.
-Kinde Gentlemen, your paines are registred,
-Where euery day I turne the Leafe,
-To reade them.
-Let vs toward the King: thinke vpon
-What hath chanc'd: and at more time,
-The Interim hauing weigh'd it, let vs speake
-Our free Hearts each to other
-
-   Banq. Very gladly
-
-   Macb. Till then enough:
-Come friends.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Flourish. Enter King, Lenox, Malcolme, Donalbaine, and
-Attendants.
-
-  King. Is execution done on Cawdor?
-Or not those in Commission yet return'd?
-  Mal. My Liege, they are not yet come back.
-But I haue spoke with one that saw him die:
-Who did report, that very frankly hee
-Confess'd his Treasons, implor'd your Highnesse Pardon,
-And set forth a deepe Repentance:
-Nothing in his Life became him,
-Like the leauing it. Hee dy'de,
-As one that had beene studied in his death,
-To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,
-As 'twere a carelesse Trifle
-
-   King. There's no Art,
-To finde the Mindes construction in the Face.
-He was a Gentleman, on whom I built
-An absolute Trust.
-Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Rosse, and Angus.
-
-O worthyest Cousin,
-The sinne of my Ingratitude euen now
-Was heauie on me. Thou art so farre before,
-That swiftest Wing of Recompence is slow,
-To ouertake thee. Would thou hadst lesse deseru'd,
-That the proportion both of thanks, and payment,
-Might haue beene mine: onely I haue left to say,
-More is thy due, then more then all can pay
-
-   Macb. The seruice, and the loyaltie I owe,
-In doing it, payes it selfe.
-Your Highnesse part, is to receiue our Duties:
-And our Duties are to your Throne, and State,
-Children, and Seruants; which doe but what they should,
-By doing euery thing safe toward your Loue
-And Honor
-
-   King. Welcome hither:
-I haue begun to plant thee, and will labour
-To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
-That hast no lesse deseru'd, nor must be knowne
-No lesse to haue done so: Let me enfold thee,
-And hold thee to my Heart
-
-   Banq. There if I grow,
-The Haruest is your owne
-
-   King. My plenteous Ioyes,
-Wanton in fulnesse, seeke to hide themselues
-In drops of sorrow. Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,
-And you whose places are the nearest, know,
-We will establish our Estate vpon
-Our eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,
-The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor must
-Not vnaccompanied, inuest him onely,
-But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shine
-On all deseruers. From hence to Envernes,
-And binde vs further to you
-
-   Macb. The Rest is Labor, which is not vs'd for you:
-Ile be my selfe the Herbenger, and make ioyfull
-The hearing of my Wife, with your approach:
-So humbly take my leaue
-
-   King. My worthy Cawdor
-
-   Macb. The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step,
-On which I must fall downe, or else o're-leape,
-For in my way it lyes. Starres hide your fires,
-Let not Light see my black and deepe desires:
-The Eye winke at the Hand: yet let that bee,
-Which the Eye feares, when it is done to see.
-Enter.
-
-  King. True worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,
-And in his commendations, I am fed:
-It is a Banquet to me. Let's after him,
-Whose care is gone before, to bid vs welcome:
-It is a peerelesse Kinsman.
-
-Flourish. Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Enter Macbeths Wife alone with a Letter.
-
-  Lady. They met me in the day of successe: and I haue
-learn'd by the perfect'st report, they haue more in them, then
-mortall knowledge. When I burnt in desire to question them
-further, they made themselues Ayre, into which they vanish'd.
-Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missiues from
-the King, who all-hail'd me Thane of Cawdor, by which Title
-before, these weyward Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me to
-the comming on of time, with haile King that shalt be. This
-haue I thought good to deliuer thee (my dearest Partner of
-Greatnesse) that thou might'st not loose the dues of reioycing
-by being ignorant of what Greatnesse is promis'd thee. Lay
-it to thy heart and farewell.
-Glamys thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
-What thou art promis'd: yet doe I feare thy Nature,
-It is too full o'th' Milke of humane kindnesse,
-To catch the neerest way. Thou would'st be great,
-Art not without Ambition, but without
-The illnesse should attend it. What thou would'st highly,
-That would'st thou holily: would'st not play false,
-And yet would'st wrongly winne.
-Thould'st haue, great Glamys, that which cryes,
-Thus thou must doe, if thou haue it;
-And that which rather thou do'st feare to doe,
-Then wishest should be vndone. High thee hither,
-That I may powre my Spirits in thine Eare,
-And chastise with the valour of my Tongue
-All that impeides thee from the Golden Round,
-Which Fate and Metaphysicall ayde doth seeme
-To haue thee crown'd withall.
-Enter Messenger.
-
-What is your tidings?
-  Mess. The King comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it.
-Is not thy Master with him? who, wer't so,
-Would haue inform'd for preparation
-
-   Mess. So please you, it is true: our Thane is comming:
-One of my fellowes had the speed of him;
-Who almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
-Then would make vp his Message
-
-   Lady. Giue him tending,
-He brings great newes,
-
-Exit Messenger.
-
-The Rauen himselfe is hoarse,
-That croakes the fatall entrance of Duncan
-Vnder my Battlements. Come you Spirits,
-That tend on mortall thoughts, vnsex me here,
-And fill me from the Crowne to the Toe, top-full
-Of direst Crueltie: make thick my blood,
-Stop vp th' accesse, and passage to Remorse,
-That no compunctious visitings of Nature
-Shake my fell purpose, nor keepe peace betweene
-Th' effect, and hit. Come to my Womans Brests,
-And take my Milke for Gall, you murth'ring Ministers,
-Where-euer, in your sightlesse substances,
-You wait on Natures Mischiefe. Come thick Night,
-And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell,
-
-That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes,
-Nor Heauen peepe through the Blanket of the darke,
-To cry, hold, hold.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-Great Glamys, worthy Cawdor,
-Greater then both, by the all-haile hereafter,
-Thy Letters haue transported me beyond
-This ignorant present, and I feele now
-The future in the instant
-
-   Macb. My dearest Loue,
-Duncan comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. And when goes hence?
-  Macb. To morrow, as he purposes
-
-   Lady. O neuer,
-Shall Sunne that Morrow see.
-Your Face, my Thane, is as a Booke, where men
-May reade strange matters, to beguile the time.
-Looke like the time, beare welcome in your Eye,
-Your Hand, your Tongue: looke like th' innocent flower,
-But be the Serpent vnder't. He that's comming,
-Must be prouided for: and you shall put
-This Nights great Businesse into my dispatch,
-Which shall to all our Nights, and Dayes to come,
-Giue solely soueraigne sway, and Masterdome
-
-   Macb. We will speake further,
-  Lady. Onely looke vp cleare:
-To alter fauor, euer is to feare:
-Leaue all the rest to me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Sexta.
-
-Hoboyes, and Torches. Enter King, Malcolme, Donalbaine,
-Banquo, Lenox,
-Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and Attendants.
-
-  King. This Castle hath a pleasant seat,
-The ayre nimbly and sweetly recommends it selfe
-Vnto our gentle sences
-
-   Banq. This Guest of Summer,
-The Temple-haunting Barlet does approue,
-By his loued Mansonry, that the Heauens breath
-Smells wooingly here: no Iutty frieze,
-Buttrice, nor Coigne of Vantage, but this Bird
-Hath made his pendant Bed, and procreant Cradle,
-Where they must breed, and haunt: I haue obseru'd
-The ayre is delicate.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  King. See, see our honor'd Hostesse:
-The Loue that followes vs, sometime is our trouble,
-Which still we thanke as Loue. Herein I teach you,
-How you shall bid God-eyld vs for your paines,
-And thanke vs for your trouble
-
-   Lady. All our seruice,
-In euery point twice done, and then done double,
-Were poore, and single Businesse, to contend
-Against those Honors deepe, and broad,
-Wherewith your Maiestie loades our House:
-For those of old, and the late Dignities,
-Heap'd vp to them, we rest your Ermites
-
-   King. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
-We courst him at the heeles, and had a purpose
-To be his Purueyor: But he rides well,
-And his great Loue (sharpe as his Spurre) hath holp him
-To his home before vs: Faire and Noble Hostesse
-We are your guest to night
-
-   La. Your Seruants euer,
-Haue theirs, themselues, and what is theirs in compt,
-To make their Audit at your Highnesse pleasure,
-Still to returne your owne
-
-   King. Giue me your hand:
-Conduct me to mine Host we loue him highly,
-And shall continue, our Graces towards him.
-By your leaue Hostesse.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Septima.
-
-Hoboyes. Torches. Enter a Sewer, and diuers Seruants with Dishes
-and
-Seruice ouer the Stage. Then enter Macbeth
-
-   Macb. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twer well,
-It were done quickly: If th' Assassination
-Could trammell vp the Consequence, and catch
-With his surcease, Successe: that but this blow
-Might be the be all, and the end all. Heere,
-But heere, vpon this Banke and Schoole of time,
-Wee'ld iumpe the life to come. But in these Cases,
-We still haue iudgement heere, that we but teach
-Bloody Instructions, which being taught, returne
-To plague th' Inuenter, this euen-handed Iustice
-Commends th' Ingredience of our poyson'd Challice
-To our owne lips. Hee's heere in double trust;
-First, as I am his Kinsman, and his Subiect,
-Strong both against the Deed: Then, as his Host,
-Who should against his Murtherer shut the doore,
-Not beare the knife my selfe. Besides, this Duncane
-Hath borne his Faculties so meeke; hath bin
-So cleere in his great Office, that his Vertues
-Will pleade like Angels, Trumpet-tongu'd against
-The deepe damnation of his taking off:
-And Pitty, like a naked New-borne-Babe,
-Striding the blast, or Heauens Cherubin, hors'd
-Vpon the sightlesse Curriors of the Ayre,
-Shall blow the horrid deed in euery eye,
-That teares shall drowne the winde. I haue no Spurre
-To pricke the sides of my intent, but onely
-Vaulting Ambition, which ore-leapes it selfe,
-And falles on th' other.
-Enter Lady.
-
-How now? What Newes?
-  La. He has almost supt: why haue you left the chamber?
-  Mac. Hath he ask'd for me?
-  La. Know you not, he ha's?
-  Mac. We will proceed no further in this Businesse:
-He hath Honour'd me of late, and I haue bought
-Golden Opinions from all sorts of people,
-Which would be worne now in their newest glosse,
-Not cast aside so soone
-
-   La. Was the hope drunke,
-Wherein you drest your selfe? Hath it slept since?
-And wakes it now to looke so greene, and pale,
-At what it did so freely? From this time,
-Such I account thy loue. Art thou affear'd
-To be the same in thine owne Act, and Valour,
-As thou art in desire? Would'st thou haue that
-Which thou esteem'st the Ornament of Life,
-And liue a Coward in thine owne Esteeme?
-Letting I dare not, wait vpon I would,
-Like the poore Cat i'th' Addage
-
-   Macb. Prythee peace:
-I dare do all that may become a man,
-Who dares do more, is none
-
-   La. What Beast was't then
-That made you breake this enterprize to me?
-When you durst do it, then you were a man:
-And to be more then what you were, you would
-Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place
-Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
-They haue made themselues, and that their fitnesse now
-Do's vnmake you. I haue giuen Sucke, and know
-How tender 'tis to loue the Babe that milkes me,
-I would, while it was smyling in my Face,
-Haue pluckt my Nipple from his Bonelesse Gummes,
-And dasht the Braines out, had I so sworne
-As you haue done to this
-
-   Macb. If we should faile?
-  Lady. We faile?
-But screw your courage to the sticking place,
-And wee'le not fayle: when Duncan is asleepe,
-(Whereto the rather shall his dayes hard Iourney
-Soundly inuite him) his two Chamberlaines
-Will I with Wine, and Wassell, so conuince,
-That Memorie, the Warder of the Braine,
-Shall be a Fume, and the Receit of Reason
-A Lymbeck onely: when in Swinish sleepe,
-Their drenched Natures lyes as in a Death,
-What cannot you and I performe vpon
-Th' vnguarded Duncan? What not put vpon
-His spungie Officers? who shall beare the guilt
-Of our great quell
-
-   Macb. Bring forth Men-Children onely:
-For thy vndaunted Mettle should compose
-Nothing but Males. Will it not be receiu'd,
-When we haue mark'd with blood those sleepie two
-Of his owne Chamber, and vs'd their very Daggers,
-That they haue don't?
-  Lady. Who dares receiue it other,
-As we shall make our Griefes and Clamor rore,
-Vpon his Death?
-  Macb. I am settled, and bend vp
-Each corporall Agent to this terrible Feat.
-Away, and mock the time with fairest show,
-False Face must hide what the false Heart doth know.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo, and Fleance, with a Torch before him.
-
-  Banq. How goes the Night, Boy?
-  Fleance. The Moone is downe: I haue not heard the
-Clock
-
-   Banq. And she goes downe at Twelue
-
-   Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir
-
-   Banq. Hold, take my Sword:
-There's Husbandry in Heauen,
-Their Candles are all out: take thee that too.
-A heauie Summons lyes like Lead vpon me,
-And yet I would not sleepe:
-Mercifull Powers, restraine in me the cursed thoughts
-That Nature giues way to in repose.
-Enter Macbeth, and a Seruant with a Torch.
-
-Giue me my Sword: who's there?
-  Macb. A Friend
-
-   Banq. What Sir, not yet at rest? the King's a bed.
-He hath beene in vnusuall Pleasure,
-And sent forth great Largesse to your Offices.
-This Diamond he greetes your Wife withall,
-By the name of most kind Hostesse,
-And shut vp in measurelesse content
-
-   Mac. Being vnprepar'd,
-Our will became the seruant to defect,
-Which else should free haue wrought
-
-   Banq. All's well.
-I dreamt last Night of the three weyward Sisters:
-To you they haue shew'd some truth
-
-   Macb. I thinke not of them:
-Yet when we can entreat an houre to serue,
-We would spend it in some words vpon that Businesse,
-If you would graunt the time
-
-   Banq. At your kind'st leysure
-
-   Macb. If you shall cleaue to my consent,
-When 'tis, it shall make Honor for you
-
-   Banq. So I lose none,
-In seeking to augment it, but still keepe
-My Bosome franchis'd, and Allegeance cleare,
-I shall be counsail'd
-
-   Macb. Good repose the while
-
-   Banq. Thankes Sir: the like to you.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-  Macb. Goe bid thy Mistresse, when my drinke is ready,
-She strike vpon the Bell. Get thee to bed.
-Enter.
-
-Is this a Dagger, which I see before me,
-The Handle toward my Hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
-I haue thee not, and yet I see thee still.
-Art thou not fatall Vision, sensible
-To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
-A Dagger of the Minde, a false Creation,
-Proceeding from the heat-oppressed Braine?
-I see thee yet, in forme as palpable,
-As this which now I draw.
-Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
-And such an Instrument I was to vse.
-Mine Eyes are made the fooles o'th' other Sences,
-Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
-And on thy Blade, and Dudgeon, Gouts of Blood,
-Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
-It is the bloody Businesse, which informes
-Thus to mine Eyes. Now o're the one halfe World
-Nature seemes dead, and wicked Dreames abuse
-The Curtain'd sleepe: Witchcraft celebrates
-Pale Heccats Offrings: and wither'd Murther,
-Alarum'd by his Centinell, the Wolfe,
-Whose howle's his Watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
-With Tarquins rauishing sides, towards his designe
-Moues like a Ghost. Thou sowre and firme-set Earth
-Heare not my steps, which they may walke, for feare
-Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
-And take the present horror from the time,
-Which now sutes with it. Whiles I threat, he liues:
-Words to the heat of deedes too cold breath giues.
-
-A Bell rings.
-
-I goe, and it is done: the Bell inuites me.
-Heare it not, Duncan, for it is a Knell,
-That summons thee to Heauen, or to Hell.
-Enter.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Lady.
-
-  La. That which hath made the[m] drunk, hath made me bold:
-What hath quench'd them, hath giuen me fire.
-Hearke, peace: it was the Owle that shriek'd,
-The fatall Bell-man, which giues the stern'st good-night.
-He is about it, the Doores are open:
-And the surfeted Groomes doe mock their charge
-With Snores. I haue drugg'd their Possets,
-That Death and Nature doe contend about them,
-Whether they liue, or dye.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. Who's there? what hoa?
-  Lady. Alack, I am afraid they haue awak'd,
-And 'tis not done: th' attempt, and not the deed,
-Confounds vs: hearke: I lay'd their Daggers ready,
-He could not misse 'em. Had he not resembled
-My Father as he slept, I had don't.
-My Husband?
-  Macb. I haue done the deed:
-Didst thou not heare a noyse?
-  Lady. I heard the Owle schreame, and the Crickets cry.
-Did not you speake?
-  Macb. When?
-  Lady. Now
-
-   Macb. As I descended?
-  Lady. I
-
-   Macb. Hearke, who lyes i'th' second Chamber?
-  Lady. Donalbaine
-
-   Mac. This is a sorry sight
-
-   Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight
-
-   Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleepe,
-And one cry'd Murther, that they did wake each other:
-I stood, and heard them: But they did say their Prayers,
-And addrest them againe to sleepe
-
-   Lady. There are two lodg'd together
-
-   Macb. One cry'd God blesse vs, and Amen the other,
-As they had seene me with these Hangmans hands:
-Listning their feare, I could not say Amen,
-When they did say God blesse vs
-
-   Lady. Consider it not so deepely
-
-   Mac. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen?
-I had most need of Blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat
-
-   Lady. These deeds must not be thought
-After these wayes: so, it will make vs mad
-
-   Macb. Me thought I heard a voyce cry, Sleep no more:
-Macbeth does murther Sleepe, the innocent Sleepe,
-Sleepe that knits vp the rauel'd Sleeue of Care,
-The death of each dayes Life, sore Labors Bath,
-Balme of hurt Mindes, great Natures second Course,
-Chiefe nourisher in Life's Feast
-
-   Lady. What doe you meane?
-  Macb. Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the House:
-Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and therefore Cawdor
-Shall sleepe no more: Macbeth shall sleepe no more
-
-   Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why worthy Thane,
-You doe vnbend your Noble strength, to thinke
-So braine-sickly of things: Goe get some Water,
-And wash this filthie Witnesse from your Hand.
-Why did you bring these Daggers from the place?
-They must lye there: goe carry them, and smeare
-The sleepie Groomes with blood
-
-   Macb. Ile goe no more:
-I am afraid, to thinke what I haue done:
-Looke on't againe, I dare not
-
-   Lady. Infirme of purpose:
-Giue me the Daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
-Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Childhood,
-That feares a painted Deuill. If he doe bleed,
-Ile guild the Faces of the Groomes withall,
-For it must seeme their Guilt.
-Enter.
-
-Knocke within.
-
-  Macb. Whence is that knocking?
-How is't with me, when euery noyse appalls me?
-What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes.
-Will all great Neptunes Ocean wash this blood
-Cleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather
-The multitudinous Seas incarnardine,
-Making the Greene one, Red.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. My Hands are of your colour: but I shame
-To weare a Heart so white.
-
-Knocke.
-
-I heare a knocking at the South entry:
-Retyre we to our Chamber:
-A little Water cleares vs of this deed.
-How easie is it then? your Constancie
-Hath left you vnattended.
-
-Knocke.
-
-Hearke, more knocking.
-Get on your Night-Gowne, least occasion call vs,
-And shew vs to be Watchers: be not lost
-So poorely in your thoughts
-
-   Macb. To know my deed,
-
-Knocke.
-
-'Twere best not know my selfe.
-Wake Duncan with thy knocking:
-I would thou could'st.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
-
-  Porter. Here's a knocking indeede: if a man were
-Porter of Hell Gate, hee should haue old turning the
-Key.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there
-i'th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hang'd
-himselfe on th' expectation of Plentie: Come in time, haue
-Napkins enow about you, here you'le sweat for't.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name?
-Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in both
-the Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treason
-enough for Gods sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen:
-oh come in, Equiuocator.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an English
-Taylor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose:
-Come in Taylor, here you may rost your Goose.
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but this
-place is too cold for Hell. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further:
-I had thought to haue let in some of all Professions, that
-goe the Primrose way to th' euerlasting Bonfire.
-
-Knock.
-
-Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.
-Enter Macduff, and Lenox.
-
-  Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed,
-That you doe lye so late?
-  Port. Faith Sir, we were carowsing till the second Cock:
-And Drinke, Sir, is a great prouoker of three things
-
-   Macd. What three things does Drinke especially
-prouoke?
-  Port. Marry, Sir, Nose-painting, Sleepe, and Vrine.
-Lecherie, Sir, it prouokes, and vnprouokes: it prouokes
-the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore
-much Drinke may be said to be an Equiuocator with Lecherie:
-it makes him, and it marres him; it sets him on,
-and it takes him off; it perswades him, and dis-heartens
-him; makes him stand too, and not stand too: in conclusion,
-equiuocates him in a sleepe, and giuing him the Lye,
-leaues him
-
-   Macd. I beleeue, Drinke gaue thee the Lye last Night
-
-   Port. That it did, Sir, i'the very Throat on me: but I
-requited him for his Lye, and (I thinke) being too strong
-for him, though he tooke vp my Legges sometime, yet I
-made a Shift to cast him.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macd. Is thy Master stirring?
-Our knocking ha's awak'd him: here he comes
-
-   Lenox. Good morrow, Noble Sir
-
-   Macb. Good morrow both
-
-   Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?
-  Macb. Not yet
-
-   Macd. He did command me to call timely on him,
-I haue almost slipt the houre
-
-   Macb. Ile bring you to him
-
-   Macd. I know this is a ioyfull trouble to you:
-But yet 'tis one
-
-   Macb. The labour we delight in, Physicks paine:
-This is the Doore
-
-   Macd. Ile make so bold to call, for 'tis my limitted
-seruice.
-
-Exit Macduffe.
-
-  Lenox. Goes the King hence to day?
-  Macb. He does: he did appoint so
-
-   Lenox. The Night ha's been vnruly:
-Where we lay, our Chimneys were blowne downe,
-And (as they say) lamentings heard i'th' Ayre;
-Strange Schreemes of Death,
-And Prophecying, with Accents terrible,
-Of dyre Combustion, and confus'd Euents,
-New hatch'd toth' wofull time.
-The obscure Bird clamor'd the liue-long Night.
-Some say, the Earth was Feuorous,
-And did shake
-
-   Macb. 'Twas a rough Night
-
-   Lenox. My young remembrance cannot paralell
-A fellow to it.
-Enter Macduff.
-
-  Macd. O horror, horror, horror,
-Tongue nor Heart cannot conceiue, nor name thee
-
-   Macb. and Lenox. What's the matter?
-  Macd. Confusion now hath made his Master-peece:
-Most sacrilegious Murther hath broke ope
-The Lords anoynted Temple, and stole thence
-The Life o'th' Building
-
-   Macb. What is't you say, the Life?
-  Lenox. Meane you his Maiestie?
-  Macd. Approch the Chamber, and destroy your sight
-With a new Gorgon. Doe not bid me speake:
-See, and then speake your selues: awake, awake,
-
-Exeunt. Macbeth and Lenox.
-
-Ring the Alarum Bell: Murther, and Treason,
-Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolme awake,
-Shake off this Downey sleepe, Deaths counterfeit,
-And looke on Death it selfe: vp, vp, and see
-The great Doomes Image: Malcolme, Banquo,
-As from your Graues rise vp, and walke like Sprights,
-To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell.
-
-Bell rings. Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. What's the Businesse?
-That such a hideous Trumpet calls to parley
-The sleepers of the House? speake, speake
-
-   Macd. O gentle Lady,
-'Tis not for you to heare what I can speake:
-The repetition in a Womans eare,
-Would murther as it fell.
-Enter Banquo.
-
-O Banquo, Banquo, Our Royall Master's murther'd
-
-   Lady. Woe, alas:
-What, in our House?
-  Ban. Too cruell, any where.
-Deare Duff, I prythee contradict thy selfe,
-And say, it is not so.
-Enter Macbeth, Lenox, and Rosse.
-
-  Macb. Had I but dy'd an houre before this chance,
-I had liu'd a blessed time: for from this instant,
-There's nothing serious in Mortalitie:
-All is but Toyes: Renowne and Grace is dead,
-The Wine of Life is drawne, and the meere Lees
-Is left this Vault, to brag of.
-Enter Malcolme and Donalbaine.
-
-  Donal. What is amisse?
-  Macb. You are, and doe not know't:
-The Spring, the Head, the Fountaine of your Blood
-Is stopt, the very Source of it is stopt
-
-   Macd. Your Royall Father's murther'd
-
-   Mal. Oh, by whom?
-  Lenox. Those of his Chamber, as it seem'd, had don't:
-Their Hands and Faces were all badg'd with blood,
-So were their Daggers, which vnwip'd, we found
-Vpon their Pillowes: they star'd, and were distracted,
-No mans Life was to be trusted with them
-
-   Macb. O, yet I doe repent me of my furie,
-That I did kill them
-
-   Macd. Wherefore did you so?
-  Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temp'rate, & furious,
-Loyall, and Neutrall, in a moment? No man:
-Th' expedition of my violent Loue
-Out-run the pawser, Reason. Here lay Duncan,
-His Siluer skinne, lac'd with His Golden Blood,
-And his gash'd Stabs, look'd like a Breach in Nature,
-For Ruines wastfull entrance: there the Murtherers,
-Steep'd in the Colours of their Trade; their Daggers
-Vnmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refraine,
-That had a heart to loue; and in that heart,
-Courage, to make's loue knowne?
-  Lady. Helpe me hence, hoa
-
-   Macd. Looke to the Lady
-
-   Mal. Why doe we hold our tongues,
-That most may clayme this argument for ours?
-  Donal. What should be spoken here,
-Where our Fate hid in an augure hole,
-May rush, and seize vs? Let's away,
-Our Teares are not yet brew'd
-
-   Mal. Nor our strong Sorrow
-Vpon the foot of Motion
-
-   Banq. Looke to the Lady:
-And when we haue our naked Frailties hid,
-That suffer in exposure; let vs meet,
-And question this most bloody piece of worke,
-To know it further. Feares and scruples shake vs:
-In the great Hand of God I stand, and thence,
-Against the vndivulg'd pretence, I fight
-Of Treasonous Mallice
-
-   Macd. And so doe I
-
-   All. So all
-
-   Macb. Let's briefely put on manly readinesse,
-And meet i'th' Hall together
-
-   All. Well contented.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-  Malc. What will you doe?
-Let's not consort with them:
-To shew an vnfelt Sorrow, is an Office
-Which the false man do's easie.
-Ile to England
-
-   Don. To Ireland, I:
-Our seperated fortune shall keepe vs both the safer:
-Where we are, there's Daggers in mens smiles;
-The neere in blood, the neerer bloody
-
-   Malc. This murtherous Shaft that's shot,
-Hath not yet lighted: and our safest way,
-Is to auoid the ayme. Therefore to Horse,
-And let vs not be daintie of leaue-taking,
-But shift away: there's warrant in that Theft,
-Which steales it selfe, when there's no mercie left.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Enter Rosse, with an Old man.
-
-  Old man. Threescore and ten I can remember well,
-Within the Volume of which Time, I haue seene
-Houres dreadfull, and things strange: but this sore Night
-Hath trifled former knowings
-
-   Rosse. Ha, good Father,
-Thou seest the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act,
-Threatens his bloody Stage: byth' Clock 'tis Day,
-And yet darke Night strangles the trauailing Lampe:
-Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes shame,
-That Darknesse does the face of Earth intombe,
-When liuing Light should kisse it?
-  Old man. 'Tis vnnaturall,
-Euen like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last,
-A Faulcon towring in her pride of place,
-Was by a Mowsing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd
-
-   Rosse. And Duncans Horses,
-(A thing most strange, and certaine)
-Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race,
-Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their stalls, flong out,
-Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they would
-Make Warre with Mankinde
-
-   Old man. 'Tis said, they eate each other
-
-   Rosse. They did so:
-To th' amazement of mine eyes that look'd vpon't.
-Enter Macduffe.
-
-Heere comes the good Macduffe.
-How goes the world Sir, now?
-  Macd. Why see you not?
-  Ross. Is't known who did this more then bloody deed?
-  Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slaine
-
-   Ross. Alas the day,
-What good could they pretend?
-  Macd. They were subborned,
-Malcolme, and Donalbaine the Kings two Sonnes
-Are stolne away and fled, which puts vpon them
-Suspition of the deed
-
-   Rosse. 'Gainst Nature still,
-Thriftlesse Ambition, that will rauen vp
-Thine owne liues meanes: Then 'tis most like,
-The Soueraignty will fall vpon Macbeth
-
-   Macd. He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone
-To be inuested
-
-   Rosse. Where is Duncans body?
-  Macd. Carried to Colmekill,
-The Sacred Store-house of his Predecessors,
-And Guardian of their Bones
-
-   Rosse. Will you to Scone?
-  Macd. No Cosin, Ile to Fife
-
-   Rosse. Well, I will thither
-
-   Macd. Well may you see things wel done there: Adieu
-Least our old Robes sit easier then our new
-
-   Rosse. Farewell, Father
-
-   Old M. Gods benyson go with you, and with those
-That would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes.
-
-Exeunt. omnes
-
-Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo.
-
-  Banq. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
-As the weyard Women promis'd, and I feare
-Thou playd'st most fowly for't: yet it was saide
-It should not stand in thy Posterity,
-But that my selfe should be the Roote, and Father
-Of many Kings. If there come truth from them,
-As vpon thee Macbeth, their Speeches shine,
-Why by the verities on thee made good,
-May they not be my Oracles as well,
-And set me vp in hope. But hush, no more.
-
-Senit sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Lenox, Rosse, Lords,
-and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. Heere's our chiefe Guest
-
-   La. If he had beene forgotten,
-It had bene as a gap in our great Feast,
-And all-thing vnbecomming
-
-   Macb. To night we hold a solemne Supper sir,
-And Ile request your presence
-
-   Banq. Let your Highnesse
-Command vpon me, to the which my duties
-Are with a most indissoluble tye
-For euer knit
-
-   Macb. Ride you this afternoone?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. We should haue else desir'd your good aduice
-(Which still hath been both graue, and prosperous)
-In this dayes Councell: but wee'le take to morrow.
-Is't farre you ride?
-  Ban. As farre, my Lord, as will fill vp the time
-'Twixt this, and Supper. Goe not my Horse the better,
-I must become a borrower of the Night,
-For a darke houre, or twaine
-
-   Macb. Faile not our Feast
-
-   Ban. My Lord, I will not
-
-   Macb. We heare our bloody Cozens are bestow'd
-In England, and in Ireland, not confessing
-Their cruell Parricide, filling their hearers
-With strange inuention. But of that to morrow,
-When therewithall, we shall haue cause of State,
-Crauing vs ioyntly. Hye you to Horse:
-Adieu, till you returne at Night.
-Goes Fleance with you?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord: our time does call vpon's
-
-   Macb. I wish your Horses swift, and sure of foot:
-And so I doe commend you to their backs.
-Farwell.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-Let euery man be master of his time,
-Till seuen at Night, to make societie
-The sweeter welcome:
-We will keepe our selfe till Supper time alone:
-While then, God be with you.
-
-Exeunt. Lords.
-
-Sirrha, a word with you: Attend those men
-Our pleasure?
-  Seruant. They are, my Lord, without the Pallace
-Gate
-
-   Macb. Bring them before vs.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-To be thus, is nothing, but to be safely thus
-Our feares in Banquo sticke deepe,
-And in his Royaltie of Nature reignes that
-Which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
-And to that dauntlesse temper of his Minde,
-He hath a Wisdome, that doth guide his Valour,
-To act in safetie. There is none but he,
-Whose being I doe feare: and vnder him,
-My Genius is rebuk'd, as it is said
-Mark Anthonies was by Caesar. He chid the Sisters,
-When first they put the Name of King vpon me,
-And bad them speake to him. Then Prophet-like,
-They hayl'd him Father to a Line of Kings.
-Vpon my Head they plac'd a fruitlesse Crowne,
-And put a barren Scepter in my Gripe,
-Thence to be wrencht with an vnlineall Hand,
-No Sonne of mine succeeding: if't be so,
-For Banquo's Issue haue I fil'd my Minde,
-For them, the gracious Duncan haue I murther'd,
-Put Rancours in the Vessell of my Peace
-Onely for them, and mine eternall Iewell
-Giuen to the common Enemie of Man,
-To make them Kings, the Seedes of Banquo Kings.
-Rather then so, come Fate into the Lyst,
-And champion me to th' vtterance.
-Who's there?
-Enter Seruant, and two Murtherers.
-
-Now goe to the Doore, and stay there till we call.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
-  Murth. It was, so please your Highnesse
-
-   Macb. Well then,
-Now haue you consider'd of my speeches:
-Know, that it was he, in the times past,
-Which held you so vnder fortune,
-Which you thought had been our innocent selfe.
-This I made good to you, in our last conference,
-Past in probation with you:
-How you were borne in hand, how crost:
-The Instruments: who wrought with them:
-And all things else, that might
-To halfe a Soule, and to a Notion craz'd,
-Say, Thus did Banquo
-
-   1.Murth. You made it knowne to vs
-
-   Macb. I did so:
-And went further, which is now
-Our point of second meeting.
-Doe you finde your patience so predominant,
-In your nature, that you can let this goe?
-Are you so Gospell'd, to pray for this good man,
-And for his Issue, whose heauie hand
-Hath bow'd you to the Graue, and begger'd
-Yours for euer?
-  1.Murth. We are men, my Liege
-
-   Macb. I, in the Catalogue ye goe for men,
-As Hounds, and Greyhounds, Mungrels, Spaniels, Curres,
-Showghes, Water-Rugs, and Demy-Wolues are clipt
-All by the Name of Dogges: the valued file
-Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
-The House-keeper, the Hunter, euery one
-According to the gift, which bounteous Nature
-Hath in him clos'd: whereby he does receiue
-Particular addition, from the Bill,
-That writes them all alike: and so of men.
-Now, if you haue a station in the file,
-Not i'th' worst ranke of Manhood, say't,
-And I will put that Businesse in your Bosomes,
-Whose execution takes your Enemie off,
-Grapples you to the heart; and loue of vs,
-Who weare our Health but sickly in his Life,
-Which in his Death were perfect
-
-   2.Murth. I am one, my Liege,
-Whom the vile Blowes and Buffets of the World
-Hath so incens'd, that I am recklesse what I doe,
-To spight the World
-
-   1.Murth. And I another,
-So wearie with Disasters, tugg'd with Fortune,
-That I would set my Life on any Chance,
-To mend it, or be rid on't
-
-   Macb. Both of you know Banquo was your Enemie
-
-   Murth. True, my Lord
-
-   Macb. So is he mine: and in such bloody distance,
-That euery minute of his being, thrusts
-Against my neer'st of Life: and though I could
-With bare-fac'd power sweepe him from my sight,
-And bid my will auouch it; yet I must not,
-For certaine friends that are both his, and mine,
-Whose loues I may not drop, but wayle his fall,
-Who I my selfe struck downe: and thence it is,
-That I to your assistance doe make loue,
-Masking the Businesse from the common Eye,
-For sundry weightie Reasons
-
-   2.Murth. We shall, my Lord,
-Performe what you command vs
-
-   1.Murth. Though our Liues-
-  Macb. Your Spirits shine through you.
-Within this houre, at most,
-I will aduise you where to plant your selues,
-Acquaint you with the perfect Spy o'th' time,
-The moment on't, for't must be done to Night,
-And something from the Pallace: alwayes thought,
-That I require a clearenesse; and with him,
-To leaue no Rubs nor Botches in the Worke:
-  Fleans , his Sonne, that keepes him companie,
-Whose absence is no lesse materiall to me,
-Then is his Fathers, must embrace the fate
-Of that darke houre: resolue your selues apart,
-Ile come to you anon
-
-   Murth. We are resolu'd, my Lord
-
-   Macb. Ile call vpon you straight: abide within,
-It is concluded: Banquo, thy Soules flight,
-If it finde Heauen, must finde it out to Night.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macbeths Lady, and a Seruant.
-
-  Lady. Is Banquo gone from Court?
-  Seruant. I, Madame, but returnes againe to Night
-
-   Lady. Say to the King, I would attend his leysure,
-For a few words
-
-   Seruant. Madame, I will.
-Enter.
-
-  Lady. Nought's had, all's spent.
-Where our desire is got without content:
-'Tis safer, to be that which we destroy,
-Then by destruction dwell in doubtfull ioy.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-How now, my Lord, why doe you keepe alone?
-Of sorryest Fancies your Companions making,
-Vsing those Thoughts, which should indeed haue dy'd
-With them they thinke on: things without all remedie
-Should be without regard: what's done, is done
-
-   Macb. We haue scorch'd the Snake, not kill'd it:
-Shee'le close, and be her selfe, whilest our poore Mallice
-Remaines in danger of her former Tooth.
-But let the frame of things dis-ioynt,
-Both the Worlds suffer,
-Ere we will eate our Meale in feare, and sleepe
-In the affliction of these terrible Dreames,
-That shake vs Nightly: Better be with the dead,
-Whom we, to gayne our peace, haue sent to peace,
-Then on the torture of the Minde to lye
-In restlesse extasie.
-Duncane is in his Graue:
-After Lifes fitfull Feuer, he sleepes well,
-Treason ha's done his worst: nor Steele, nor Poyson,
-Mallice domestique, forraine Leuie, nothing,
-Can touch him further
-
-   Lady. Come on:
-Gentle my Lord, sleeke o're your rugged Lookes,
-Be bright and Iouiall among your Guests to Night
-
-   Macb. So shall I Loue, and so I pray be you:
-Let your remembrance apply to Banquo,
-Present him Eminence, both with Eye and Tongue:
-Vnsafe the while, that wee must laue
-Our Honors in these flattering streames,
-And make our Faces Vizards to our Hearts,
-Disguising what they are
-
-   Lady. You must leaue this
-
-   Macb. O, full of Scorpions is my Minde, deare Wife:
-Thou know'st, that Banquo and his Fleans liues
-
-   Lady. But in them, Natures Coppie's not eterne
-
-   Macb. There's comfort yet, they are assaileable,
-Then be thou iocund: ere the Bat hath flowne
-His Cloyster'd flight, ere to black Heccats summons
-The shard-borne Beetle, with his drowsie hums,
-Hath rung Nights yawning Peale,
-There shall be done a deed of dreadfull note
-
-   Lady. What's to be done?
-  Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck,
-Till thou applaud the deed: Come, seeling Night,
-Skarfe vp the tender Eye of pittifull Day,
-And with thy bloodie and inuisible Hand
-Cancell and teare to pieces that great Bond,
-Which keepes me pale. Light thickens,
-And the Crow makes Wing toth' Rookie Wood:
-Good things of Day begin to droope, and drowse,
-Whiles Nights black Agents to their Prey's doe rowse.
-Thou maruell'st at my words: but hold thee still,
-Things bad begun, make strong themselues by ill:
-So prythee goe with me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter three Murtherers.
-
-  1. But who did bid thee ioyne with vs?
-  3. Macbeth
-
-   2. He needes not our mistrust, since he deliuers
-Our Offices, and what we haue to doe,
-To the direction iust
-
-   1. Then stand with vs:
-The West yet glimmers with some streakes of Day.
-Now spurres the lated Traueller apace,
-To gayne the timely Inne, and neere approches
-The subiect of our Watch
-
-   3. Hearke, I heare Horses
-
-   Banquo within. Giue vs a Light there, hoa
-
-   2. Then 'tis hee:
-The rest, that are within the note of expectation,
-Alreadie are i'th' Court
-
-   1. His Horses goe about
-
-   3. Almost a mile: but he does vsually,
-So all men doe, from hence toth' Pallace Gate
-Make it their Walke.
-Enter Banquo and Fleans, with a Torch.
-
-  2. A Light, a Light
-
-   3. 'Tis hee
-
-   1. Stand too't
-
-   Ban. It will be Rayne to Night
-
-   1. Let it come downe
-
-   Ban. O, Trecherie!
-Flye good Fleans, flye, flye, flye,
-Thou may'st reuenge. O Slaue!
-  3. Who did strike out the Light?
-  1. Was't not the way?
-  3. There's but one downe: the Sonne is fled
-
-   2. We haue lost
-Best halfe of our Affaire
-
-   1. Well, let's away, and say how much is done.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Quarta.
-
-Banquet prepar'd. Enter Macbeth, Lady, Rosse, Lenox, Lords, and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. You know your owne degrees, sit downe:
-At first and last, the hearty welcome
-
-   Lords. Thankes to your Maiesty
-
-   Macb. Our selfe will mingle with Society,
-And play the humble Host:
-Our Hostesse keepes her State, but in best time
-We will require her welcome
-
-   La. Pronounce it for me Sir, to all our Friends,
-For my heart speakes, they are welcome.
-Enter first Murtherer.
-
-  Macb. See they encounter thee with their harts thanks
-Both sides are euen: heere Ile sit i'th' mid'st,
-Be large in mirth, anon wee'l drinke a Measure
-The Table round. There's blood vpon thy face
-
-   Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then
-
-   Macb. 'Tis better thee without, then he within.
-Is he dispatch'd?
-  Mur. My Lord his throat is cut, that I did for him
-
-   Mac. Thou art the best o'th' Cut-throats,
-Yet hee's good that did the like for Fleans:
-If thou did'st it, thou art the Non-pareill
-
-   Mur. Most Royall Sir
-Fleans is scap'd
-
-   Macb. Then comes my Fit againe:
-I had else beene perfect;
-Whole as the Marble, founded as the Rocke,
-As broad, and generall, as the casing Ayre:
-But now I am cabin'd, crib'd, confin'd, bound in
-To sawcy doubts, and feares. But Banquo's safe?
-  Mur. I, my good Lord: safe in a ditch he bides,
-With twenty trenched gashes on his head;
-The least a Death to Nature
-
-   Macb. Thankes for that:
-There the growne Serpent lyes, the worme that's fled
-Hath Nature that in time will Venom breed,
-No teeth for th' present. Get thee gone, to morrow
-Wee'l heare our selues againe.
-
-Exit Murderer.
-
-  Lady. My Royall Lord,
-You do not giue the Cheere, the Feast is sold
-That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making:
-'Tis giuen, with welcome: to feede were best at home:
-From thence, the sawce to meate is Ceremony,
-Meeting were bare without it.
-Enter the Ghost of Banquo, and sits in Macbeths place.
-
-  Macb. Sweet Remembrancer:
-Now good digestion waite on Appetite,
-And health on both
-
-   Lenox. May't please your Highnesse sit
-
-   Macb. Here had we now our Countries Honor, roof'd,
-Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present:
-Who, may I rather challenge for vnkindnesse,
-Then pitty for Mischance
-
-   Rosse. His absence (Sir)
-Layes blame vpon his promise. Pleas't your Highnesse
-To grace vs with your Royall Company?
-  Macb. The Table's full
-
-   Lenox. Heere is a place reseru'd Sir
-
-   Macb. Where?
-  Lenox. Heere my good Lord.
-What is't that moues your Highnesse?
-  Macb. Which of you haue done this?
-  Lords. What, my good Lord?
-  Macb. Thou canst not say I did it: neuer shake
-Thy goary lockes at me
-
-   Rosse. Gentlemen rise, his Highnesse is not well
-
-   Lady. Sit worthy Friends: my Lord is often thus,
-And hath beene from his youth. Pray you keepe Seat,
-The fit is momentary, vpon a thought
-He will againe be well. If much you note him
-You shall offend him, and extend his Passion,
-Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man?
-  Macb. I, and a bold one, that dare looke on that
-Which might appall the Diuell
-
-   La. O proper stuffe:
-This is the very painting of your feare:
-This is the Ayre-drawne-Dagger which you said
-Led you to Duncan. O, these flawes and starts
-(Impostors to true feare) would well become
-A womans story, at a Winters fire
-Authoriz'd by her Grandam: shame it selfe,
-Why do you make such faces? When all's done
-You looke but on a stoole
-
-   Macb. Prythee see there:
-Behold, looke, loe, how say you:
-Why what care I, if thou canst nod, speake too.
-If Charnell houses, and our Graues must send
-Those that we bury, backe; our Monuments
-Shall be the Mawes of Kytes
-
-   La. What? quite vnmann'd in folly
-
-   Macb. If I stand heere, I saw him
-
-   La. Fie for shame
-
-   Macb. Blood hath bene shed ere now, i'th' olden time
-Ere humane Statute purg'd the gentle Weale:
-I, and since too, Murthers haue bene perform'd
-Too terrible for the eare. The times has bene,
-That when the Braines were out, the man would dye,
-And there an end: But now they rise againe
-With twenty mortall murthers on their crownes,
-And push vs from our stooles. This is more strange
-Then such a murther is
-
-   La. My worthy Lord
-Your Noble Friends do lacke you
-
-   Macb. I do forget:
-Do not muse at me my most worthy Friends,
-I haue a strange infirmity, which is nothing
-To those that know me. Come, loue and health to all,
-Then Ile sit downe: Giue me some Wine, fill full:
-Enter Ghost.
-
-I drinke to th' generall ioy o'th' whole Table,
-And to our deere Friend Banquo, whom we misse:
-Would he were heere: to all, and him we thirst,
-And all to all
-
-   Lords. Our duties, and the pledge
-
-   Mac. Auant, & quit my sight, let the earth hide thee:
-Thy bones are marrowlesse, thy blood is cold:
-Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
-Which thou dost glare with
-
-   La. Thinke of this good Peeres
-But as a thing of Custome: 'Tis no other,
-Onely it spoyles the pleasure of the time
-
-   Macb. What man dare, I dare:
-Approach thou like the rugged Russian Beare,
-The arm'd Rhinoceros, or th' Hircan Tiger,
-Take any shape but that, and my firme Nerues
-Shall neuer tremble. Or be aliue againe,
-And dare me to the Desart with thy Sword:
-If trembling I inhabit then, protest mee
-The Baby of a Girle. Hence horrible shadow,
-Vnreall mock'ry hence. Why so, being gone
-I am a man againe: pray you sit still
-
-   La. You haue displac'd the mirth,
-Broke the good meeting, with most admir'd disorder
-
-   Macb. Can such things be,
-And ouercome vs like a Summers Clowd,
-Without our speciall wonder? You make me strange
-Euen to the disposition that I owe,
-When now I thinke you can behold such sights,
-And keepe the naturall Rubie of your Cheekes,
-When mine is blanch'd with feare
-
-   Rosse. What sights, my Lord?
-  La. I pray you speake not: he growes worse & worse
-Question enrages him: at once, goodnight.
-Stand not vpon the order of your going,
-But go at once
-
-   Len. Good night, and better health
-Attend his Maiesty
-
-   La. A kinde goodnight to all.
-
-Exit Lords.
-
-  Macb. It will haue blood they say:
-Blood will haue Blood:
-Stones haue beene knowne to moue, & Trees to speake:
-Augures, and vnderstood Relations, haue
-By Maggot Pyes, & Choughes, & Rookes brought forth
-The secret'st man of Blood. What is the night?
-  La. Almost at oddes with morning, which is which
-
-   Macb. How say'st thou that Macduff denies his person
-At our great bidding
-
-   La. Did you send to him Sir?
-  Macb. I heare it by the way: But I will send:
-There's not a one of them but in his house
-I keepe a Seruant Feed. I will to morrow
-(And betimes I will) to the weyard Sisters.
-More shall they speake: for now I am bent to know
-By the worst meanes, the worst, for mine owne good,
-All causes shall giue way. I am in blood
-Stept in so farre, that should I wade no more,
-Returning were as tedious as go ore:
-Strange things I haue in head, that will to hand,
-Which must be acted, ere they may be scand
-
-   La. You lacke the season of all Natures, sleepe
-
-   Macb. Come, wee'l to sleepe: My strange & self-abuse
-Is the initiate feare, that wants hard vse:
-We are yet but yong indeed.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecat.
-
-  1. Why how now Hecat, you looke angerly?
-  Hec. Haue I not reason (Beldams) as you are?
-Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare
-To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,
-In Riddles, and Affaires of death;
-And I the Mistris of your Charmes,
-The close contriuer of all harmes,
-Was neuer call'd to beare my part,
-Or shew the glory of our Art?
-And which is worse, all you haue done
-Hath bene but for a wayward Sonne,
-Spightfull, and wrathfull, who (as others do)
-Loues for his owne ends, not for you.
-But make amends now: Get you gon,
-And at the pit of Acheron
-Meete me i'th' Morning: thither he
-Will come, to know his Destinie.
-Your Vessels, and your Spels prouide,
-Your Charmes, and euery thing beside;
-I am for th' Ayre: This night Ile spend
-Vnto a dismall, and a Fatall end.
-Great businesse must be wrought ere Noone.
-Vpon the Corner of the Moone
-There hangs a vap'rous drop, profound,
-Ile catch it ere it come to ground;
-And that distill'd by Magicke slights,
-Shall raise such Artificiall Sprights,
-As by the strength of their illusion,
-Shall draw him on to his Confusion.
-He shall spurne Fate, scorne Death, and beare
-His hopes 'boue Wisedome, Grace, and Feare:
-And you all know, Security
-Is Mortals cheefest Enemie.
-
-Musicke, and a Song.
-
-Hearke, I am call'd: my little Spirit see
-Sits in Foggy cloud, and stayes for me.
-
-Sing within. Come away, come away, &c.
-
-  1 Come, let's make hast, shee'l soone be
-Backe againe.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Sexta.
-
-Enter Lenox, and another Lord.
-
-  Lenox. My former Speeches,
-Haue but hit your Thoughts
-Which can interpret farther: Onely I say
-Things haue bin strangely borne. The gracious Duncan
-Was pittied of Macbeth: marry he was dead:
-And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,
-Whom you may say (if't please you) Fleans kill'd,
-For Fleans fled: Men must not walke too late.
-Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous
-It was for Malcolme, and for Donalbane
-To kill their gracious Father? Damned Fact,
-How it did greeue Macbeth? Did he not straight
-In pious rage, the two delinquents teare,
-That were the Slaues of drinke, and thralles of sleepe?
-Was not that Nobly done? I, and wisely too:
-For 'twould haue anger'd any heart aliue
-To heare the men deny't. So that I say,
-He ha's borne all things well, and I do thinke,
-That had he Duncans Sonnes vnder his Key,
-(As, and't please Heauen he shall not) they should finde
-What 'twere to kill a Father: So should Fleans.
-But peace; for from broad words, and cause he fayl'd
-His presence at the Tyrants Feast, I heare
-Macduffe liues in disgrace. Sir, can you tell
-Where he bestowes himselfe?
-  Lord. The Sonnes of Duncane
-(From whom this Tyrant holds the due of Birth)
-Liues in the English Court, and is receyu'd
-Of the most Pious Edward, with such grace,
-That the maleuolence of Fortune, nothing
-Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduffe
-Is gone, to pray the Holy King, vpon his ayd
-To wake Northumberland, and warlike Seyward,
-That by the helpe of these (with him aboue)
-To ratifie the Worke) we may againe
-Giue to our Tables meate, sleepe to our Nights:
-Free from our Feasts, and Banquets bloody kniues;
-Do faithfull Homage, and receiue free Honors,
-All which we pine for now. And this report
-Hath so exasperate their King, that hee
-Prepares for some attempt of Warre
-
-   Len. Sent he to Macduffe?
-  Lord. He did: and with an absolute Sir, not I
-The clowdy Messenger turnes me his backe,
-And hums; as who should say, you'l rue the time
-That clogges me with this Answer
-
-   Lenox. And that well might
-Aduise him to a Caution, t' hold what distance
-His wisedome can prouide. Some holy Angell
-Flye to the Court of England, and vnfold
-His Message ere he come, that a swift blessing
-May soone returne to this our suffering Country,
-Vnder a hand accurs'd
-
-   Lord. Ile send my Prayers with him.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1 Thrice the brinded Cat hath mew'd
-
-   2 Thrice, and once the Hedge-Pigge whin'd
-
-   3 Harpier cries, 'tis time, 'tis time
-
-   1 Round about the Caldron go:
-In the poysond Entrailes throw
-Toad, that vnder cold stone,
-Dayes and Nights, ha's thirty one:
-Sweltred Venom sleeping got,
-Boyle thou first i'th' charmed pot
-
-   All. Double, double, toile and trouble;
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Fillet of a Fenny Snake,
-In the Cauldron boyle and bake:
-Eye of Newt, and Toe of Frogge,
-Wooll of Bat, and Tongue of Dogge:
-Adders Forke, and Blinde-wormes Sting,
-Lizards legge, and Howlets wing:
-For a Charme of powrefull trouble,
-Like a Hell-broth, boyle and bubble
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   3 Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolfe,
-Witches Mummey, Maw, and Gulfe
-Of the rauin'd salt Sea sharke:
-Roote of Hemlocke, digg'd i'th' darke:
-Liuer of Blaspheming Iew,
-Gall of Goate, and Slippes of Yew,
-Sliuer'd in the Moones Ecclipse:
-Nose of Turke, and Tartars lips:
-Finger of Birth-strangled Babe,
-Ditch-deliuer'd by a Drab,
-Make the Grewell thicke, and slab.
-Adde thereto a Tigers Chawdron,
-For th' Ingredience of our Cawdron
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Coole it with a Baboones blood,
-Then the Charme is firme and good.
-Enter Hecat, and the other three Witches.
-
-  Hec. O well done: I commend your paines,
-And euery one shall share i'th' gaines:
-And now about the Cauldron sing
-Like Elues and Fairies in a Ring,
-Inchanting all that you put in.
-
-Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.
-
-  2 By the pricking of my Thumbes,
-Something wicked this way comes:
-Open Lockes, who euer knockes.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. How now you secret, black, & midnight Hags?
-What is't you do?
-  All. A deed without a name
-
-   Macb. I coniure you, by that which you Professe,
-(How ere you come to know it) answer me:
-Though you vntye the Windes, and let them fight
-Against the Churches: Though the yesty Waues
-Confound and swallow Nauigation vp:
-Though bladed Corne be lodg'd, & Trees blown downe,
-Though Castles topple on their Warders heads:
-Though Pallaces, and Pyramids do slope
-Their heads to their Foundations: Though the treasure
-Of Natures Germaine, tumble altogether,
-Euen till destruction sicken: Answer me
-To what I aske you
-
-   1 Speake
-
-   2 Demand
-
-   3 Wee'l answer
-
-   1 Say, if th'hadst rather heare it from our mouthes,
-Or from our Masters
-
-   Macb. Call 'em: let me see 'em
-
-   1 Powre in Sowes blood, that hath eaten
-Her nine Farrow: Greaze that's sweaten
-From the Murderers Gibbet, throw
-Into the Flame
-
-   All. Come high or low:
-Thy Selfe and Office deaftly show.
-Thunder. 1. Apparation, an Armed Head.
-
-  Macb. Tell me, thou vnknowne power
-
-   1 He knowes thy thought:
-Heare his speech, but say thou nought
-
-   1 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth:
-Beware Macduffe,
-Beware the Thane of Fife: dismisse me. Enough.
-
-He Descends.
-
-  Macb. What ere thou art, for thy good caution, thanks
-Thou hast harp'd my feare aright. But one word more
-
-   1 He will not be commanded: heere's another
-More potent then the first.
-
-Thunder. 2 Apparition, a Bloody Childe.
-
-  2 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth
-
-   Macb. Had I three eares, Il'd heare thee
-
-   Appar. Be bloody, bold, & resolute:
-Laugh to scorne
-The powre of man: For none of woman borne
-Shall harme Macbeth.
-
-Descends.
-
-  Mac. Then liue Macduffe: what need I feare of thee?
-But yet Ile make assurance: double sure,
-And take a Bond of Fate: thou shalt not liue,
-That I may tell pale-hearted Feare, it lies;
-And sleepe in spight of Thunder.
-
-Thunder 3 Apparation, a Childe Crowned, with a Tree in his hand.
-
-What is this, that rises like the issue of a King,
-And weares vpon his Baby-brow, the round
-And top of Soueraignty?
-  All. Listen, but speake not too't
-
-   3 Appar. Be Lyon metled, proud, and take no care:
-Who chafes, who frets, or where Conspirers are:
-Macbeth shall neuer vanquish'd be, vntill
-Great Byrnam Wood, to high Dunsmane Hill
-Shall come against him.
-
-Descend.
-
-  Macb. That will neuer bee:
-Who can impresse the Forrest, bid the Tree
-Vnfixe his earth-bound Root? Sweet boadments, good:
-Rebellious dead, rise neuer till the Wood
-Of Byrnan rise, and our high plac'd Macbeth
-Shall liue the Lease of Nature, pay his breath
-To time, and mortall Custome. Yet my Hart
-Throbs to know one thing: Tell me, if your Art
-Can tell so much: Shall Banquo's issue euer
-Reigne in this Kingdome?
-  All. Seeke to know no more
-
-   Macb. I will be satisfied. Deny me this,
-And an eternall Curse fall on you: Let me know.
-Why sinkes that Caldron? & what noise is this?
-
-Hoboyes
-
-  1 Shew
-
-   2 Shew
-
-   3 Shew
-
-   All. Shew his Eyes, and greeue his Hart,
-Come like shadowes, so depart.
-
-A shew of eight Kings, and Banquo last, with a glasse in his hand.
-
-  Macb. Thou art too like the Spirit of Banquo: Down:
-Thy Crowne do's seare mine Eye-bals. And thy haire
-Thou other Gold-bound-brow, is like the first:
-A third, is like the former. Filthy Hagges,
-Why do you shew me this? - A fourth? Start eyes!
-What will the Line stretch out to'th' cracke of Doome?
-Another yet? A seauenth? Ile see no more:
-And yet the eighth appeares, who beares a glasse,
-Which shewes me many more: and some I see,
-That two-fold Balles, and trebble Scepters carry.
-Horrible sight: Now I see 'tis true,
-For the Blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles vpon me,
-And points at them for his. What? is this so?
-  1 I Sir, all this is so. But why
-Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
-Come Sisters, cheere we vp his sprights,
-And shew the best of our delights.
-Ile Charme the Ayre to giue a sound,
-While you performe your Antique round:
-That this great King may kindly say,
-Our duties, did his welcome pay.
-
-Musicke. The Witches Dance, and vanish.
-
-  Macb. Where are they? Gone?
-Let this pernitious houre,
-Stand aye accursed in the Kalender.
-Come in, without there.
-Enter Lenox.
-
-  Lenox. What's your Graces will
-
-   Macb. Saw you the Weyard Sisters?
-  Lenox. No my Lord
-
-   Macb. Came they not by you?
-  Lenox. No indeed my Lord
-
-   Macb. Infected be the Ayre whereon they ride,
-And damn'd all those that trust them. I did heare
-The gallopping of Horse. Who was't came by?
-  Len. 'Tis two or three my Lord, that bring you word:
-Macduff is fled to England
-
-   Macb. Fled to England?
-  Len. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
-The flighty purpose neuer is o're-tooke
-Vnlesse the deed go with it. From this moment,
-The very firstlings of my heart shall be
-The firstlings of my hand. And euen now
-To Crown my thoughts with Acts: be it thoght & done:
-The Castle of Macduff, I will surprize.
-Seize vpon Fife; giue to th' edge o'th' Sword
-His Wife, his Babes, and all vnfortunate Soules
-That trace him in his Line. No boasting like a Foole,
-This deed Ile do, before this purpose coole,
-But no more sights. Where are these Gentlemen?
-Come bring me where they are.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macduffes Wife, her Son, and Rosse.
-
-  Wife. What had he done, to make him fly the Land?
-  Rosse. You must haue patience Madam
-
-   Wife. He had none:
-His flight was madnesse: when our Actions do not,
-Our feares do make vs Traitors
-
-   Rosse. You know not
-Whether it was his wisedome, or his feare
-
-   Wife. Wisedom? to leaue his wife, to leaue his Babes,
-His Mansion, and his Titles, in a place
-From whence himselfe do's flye? He loues vs not,
-He wants the naturall touch. For the poore Wren
-(The most diminitiue of Birds) will fight,
-Her yong ones 

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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
+
+
+Title: Of Human Bondage
+
+Author: W. Somerset Maugham
+
+Release Date: May 6, 2008 [EBook #351]
+
+Language: English
+
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OF HUMAN BONDAGE ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+OF HUMAN BONDAGE
+
+
+BY
+
+W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a
+rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room
+in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced
+mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and
+went to the child's bed.
+
+"Wake up, Philip," she said.
+
+She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him
+downstairs. He was only half awake.
+
+"Your mother wants you," she said.
+
+She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over
+to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out
+her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had
+been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt
+the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer
+to herself.
+
+"Are you sleepy, darling?" she said.
+
+Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great
+distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very
+happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to
+make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he
+kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep.
+The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side.
+
+"Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned.
+
+The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would
+not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again;
+and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held
+the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly
+passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob.
+
+"What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired."
+
+She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
+The doctor bent down.
+
+"Let me take him."
+
+She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor
+handed him back to his nurse.
+
+"You'd better put him back in his own bed."
+
+"Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His
+mother sobbed now broken-heartedly.
+
+"What will happen to him, poor child?"
+
+The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the
+crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room,
+upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted
+the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the
+woman guessed what he was doing.
+
+"Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse.
+
+"Another boy."
+
+The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She
+approached the bed.
+
+"Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the
+doctor felt his patient's pulse once more.
+
+"I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call
+again after breakfast."
+
+"I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse.
+
+They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped.
+
+"You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"D'you know at what time he'll be here?"
+
+"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram."
+
+"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way."
+
+"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir."
+
+"Who's she?"
+
+"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?"
+
+The doctor shook his head.
+
+
+
+II
+
+It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room
+at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to
+amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each
+of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each
+arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout
+chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he
+could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the
+curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of
+buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open,
+he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand
+piled away a chair and the cushions fell down.
+
+"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you."
+
+"Hulloa, Emma!" he said.
+
+The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions,
+and put them back in their places.
+
+"Am I to come home?" he asked.
+
+"Yes, I've come to fetch you."
+
+"You've got a new dress on."
+
+It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of
+black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had
+three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She
+hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could
+not give the answer she had prepared.
+
+"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length.
+
+"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?"
+
+Now she was ready.
+
+"Your mamma is quite well and happy."
+
+"Oh, I am glad."
+
+"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not
+know what she meant.
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Your mamma's in heaven."
+
+She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried
+too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features.
+She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in
+London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her
+emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the
+pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite
+unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers.
+But in a little while she pulled herself together.
+
+"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say
+good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home."
+
+"I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide
+his tears.
+
+"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat."
+
+He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall.
+He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He
+paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends,
+and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would
+be sorry for him.
+
+"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin."
+
+"I think you'd better," said Emma.
+
+"Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said.
+
+He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door
+and walked in. He heard her speak.
+
+"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss."
+
+There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in.
+Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In
+those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much
+gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an
+elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies,
+whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously.
+
+"My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms.
+
+She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to
+luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak.
+
+"I've got to go home," said Philip, at last.
+
+He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again.
+Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange
+ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission.
+Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would
+have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they
+expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out
+of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the
+basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta
+Watkin's voice.
+
+"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's
+dead."
+
+"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I
+knew it would upset you."
+
+Then one of the strangers spoke.
+
+"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world.
+I see he limps."
+
+"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother."
+
+Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where
+to go.
+
+
+
+III
+
+
+When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary,
+respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street,
+Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing
+letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which
+had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the
+hall-table.
+
+"Here's Master Philip," said Emma.
+
+Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on
+second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of
+somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair,
+worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was
+clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine
+that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a
+gold cross.
+
+"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you
+like that?"
+
+Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after
+an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an
+attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother."
+
+The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer.
+
+"Your dear mother left you in my charge."
+
+Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that
+his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way
+thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if
+her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over
+fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was
+childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a
+small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his
+sister-in-law.
+
+"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said.
+
+"With Emma?"
+
+The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.
+
+"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey.
+
+"But I want Emma to come with me."
+
+Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey
+looked at them helplessly.
+
+"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment."
+
+"Very good, sir."
+
+Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took
+the boy on his knee and put his arm round him.
+
+"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must
+see about sending you to school."
+
+"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated.
+
+"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and
+I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend."
+
+Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's
+father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments
+suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden
+death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more
+than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house
+in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in
+delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and
+accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her
+furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a
+furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience
+till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of
+money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered
+circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way
+and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than
+two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn
+his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was
+sobbing still.
+
+"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console
+the child better than anyone.
+
+Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped
+him.
+
+"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon,
+and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all
+your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by
+you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be
+sold."
+
+The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he
+turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was
+a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially
+seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered
+from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead
+woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon
+herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have
+dismissed her.
+
+But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though
+his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own
+son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft
+words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that
+she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was
+going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike
+on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and
+there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his
+tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey.
+Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped
+her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to
+gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily.
+
+But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in
+which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered
+then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his
+father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take.
+
+"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy."
+
+"Uncle William's there."
+
+"Never mind that. They're your own things now."
+
+Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left
+the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short
+a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him.
+It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy.
+But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the
+landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his
+mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately
+upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and
+listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that
+it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat
+uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the
+handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from
+hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold
+for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened
+now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were
+drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark.
+On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a
+little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the
+chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when
+his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something
+curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were
+going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a
+night-dress.
+
+Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took
+as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They
+smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers,
+filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender
+bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The
+strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had
+just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come
+upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on
+his lips.
+
+It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply
+because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on
+the pillow. He lay there quite still.
+
+
+
+IV
+
+
+Philip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused
+him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was
+sixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set
+out to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than
+five minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the
+gate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and
+it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it.
+They walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by
+visitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went
+up to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a
+side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for
+beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a
+red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical
+style. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room
+windows were gothic.
+
+Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the
+drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she
+went to the door.
+
+"There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and give her
+a kiss."
+
+Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then
+stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her
+husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale
+blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion
+of her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold
+chain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice.
+
+"Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her
+husband.
+
+"I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew.
+
+"It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the child.
+
+"No. I always walk."
+
+He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to
+come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow
+tiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An
+imposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a
+peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church
+was reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with
+emblems of the Four Evangelists.
+
+"I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your
+journey," said Mrs. Carey.
+
+It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if
+the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if
+Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid,
+didn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they
+must keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the
+dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not
+get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on
+Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the
+study so that he could write his sermon.
+
+Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that
+looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large
+tree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it
+was possible to climb quite high up it.
+
+"A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be frightened
+at sleeping alone?"
+
+"Oh, no."
+
+On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs.
+Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some
+uncertainty.
+
+"Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?"
+
+"I can wash myself," he answered firmly.
+
+"Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said Mrs. Carey.
+
+She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should
+come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat
+him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found
+herself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be
+noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys.
+Mrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back
+and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could
+pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for
+tea.
+
+The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of
+it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle;
+and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it.
+In one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs
+covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and
+was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife.
+Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that
+was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair
+had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it.
+
+Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out
+to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and
+polished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was
+much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the
+Curate.
+
+"What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey.
+
+"I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your
+journey."
+
+Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She
+seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year,
+and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two,
+he went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually
+managed to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for
+the exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in
+the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for
+a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do.
+
+"I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann.
+
+She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book
+from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on
+Philip's chair.
+
+"Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked
+tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?"
+
+Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant.
+
+"I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top,
+Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men
+like ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship."
+
+"I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa.
+
+Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut
+the top off his egg.
+
+"There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if you like."
+
+Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so
+took what he could.
+
+"How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the Vicar.
+
+"Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day."
+
+"How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle.
+
+"Very much, thank you."
+
+"You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon."
+
+Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be
+fortified for the evening service.
+
+
+
+V
+
+
+Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by
+fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a
+good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father
+had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant
+career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began
+to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson
+set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription,
+he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey,
+thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with
+mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to
+give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by
+a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a
+patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations,
+but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding.
+The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with
+reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great
+beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a
+hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers
+among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he
+deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he
+told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept
+hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the
+dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at
+luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the
+vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar
+felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume
+the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was
+practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends
+now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it
+was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to
+itself: she had no more idea of money than a child.
+
+When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which
+seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the
+breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the
+late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the
+parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed
+the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than
+usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was
+thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.
+There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember.
+The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this
+was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent,
+and he could not imagine who had ordered them.
+
+"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked.
+
+"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin
+scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember
+me by when he grows up."
+
+Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear
+treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him.
+
+"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said
+Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."
+
+He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to
+be taken.
+
+One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better
+than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had
+taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:
+suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear
+seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was
+expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be
+expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow
+up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately,
+because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had
+no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years
+before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He
+could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called
+her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,
+and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to
+struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had
+been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the
+soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the
+ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when
+she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never
+do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep
+rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt,
+but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of
+a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself
+in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had
+never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her
+beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not
+afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired;
+and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas
+before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped
+downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove
+to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to
+ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant,
+seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she
+insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove
+back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with
+all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.
+
+She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran
+down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her
+room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and
+the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting
+anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and
+reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for,
+and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She
+fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained
+unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched
+her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day,
+when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of
+her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither
+of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they
+were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in
+his memory.
+
+"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up."
+
+"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would
+have done."
+
+
+
+VI
+
+
+One day was very like another at the vicarage.
+
+Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it
+with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took
+it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then
+it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it
+late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was
+making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the
+Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to
+do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing
+village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank,
+the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round
+the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor
+people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs.
+Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to
+the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this
+fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had
+never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street:
+he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent
+their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for
+dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the
+town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers;
+Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the
+difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to
+church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with
+both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of
+going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher
+who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come
+to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was
+very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity
+further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat
+was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often
+stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager,
+who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man
+with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip
+he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats
+for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish
+church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led
+was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit
+from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the
+Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no
+hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory
+consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be
+saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really
+seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish.
+Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care
+he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey
+advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his
+fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in
+the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged
+himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back.
+
+Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey
+still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate
+had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and
+Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission
+Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few
+words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the
+chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views
+upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a
+churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He
+reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was
+the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to
+recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics,
+and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had
+enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To
+this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his
+purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were
+not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political
+meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and
+for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable
+place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was
+little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in
+a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and
+that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His
+sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of
+the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby
+linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in
+his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts
+of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first
+moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in
+life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they
+met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put
+the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her
+brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these
+gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of
+anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but
+they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held
+at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey
+and Josiah Graves both made speeches.
+
+When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally
+went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies
+talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr.
+Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least
+five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in
+the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with
+the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never
+opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had
+a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with
+banking.
+
+Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they
+continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a
+side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt
+(and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and
+nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in
+on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood
+for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who
+knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for
+flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They
+looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram
+the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home.
+
+Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it
+consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and
+Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the
+afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by
+his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of
+French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany
+the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used
+to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs
+by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was
+asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage.
+There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their
+parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr.
+Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of
+Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the
+Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony.
+
+But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset
+them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They
+preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon.
+Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like
+losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary
+Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to
+clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a
+little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat.
+Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then
+Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and
+after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress
+himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs.
+Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She
+then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey
+continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got
+up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed.
+
+When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening
+he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water,
+since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two
+persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in
+Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary
+Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to
+begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday,
+because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired
+after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for
+the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for
+Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night:
+what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't
+know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday
+night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey
+was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But
+the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's
+Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after
+eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they
+might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to
+bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said
+she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he
+should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the
+Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly
+washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night.
+
+
+
+VII
+
+
+Sunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say
+that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week.
+
+The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a
+poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at
+the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she
+got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her
+husband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers
+were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After
+breakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip
+was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a
+marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was
+thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was
+regulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and
+on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were
+most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not
+so fine that people wanted to hurry away.
+
+Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood
+in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten
+the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took
+several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a
+voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his
+face as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the
+arena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife
+could not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black
+satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time,
+but on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then,
+in conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink
+rose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he
+said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed
+as a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage
+when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew
+that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house,
+and no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary
+Ann, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She
+hurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of
+sherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed
+in the carriage, and they set off.
+
+The fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw.
+They drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch
+cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and
+while the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled
+themselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the
+sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip
+threepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the
+service began.
+
+Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a
+gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained
+interest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the
+plate.
+
+When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few
+words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went
+to the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their
+surplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and
+told him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it
+seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved
+him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies,
+sixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one
+put in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes
+there was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was
+always a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But
+Miss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that
+the stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the
+drive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his
+mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates
+Society. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey
+remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and
+somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the
+vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner.
+
+When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay
+down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks.
+
+They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for
+evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she
+read the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the
+evening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the
+darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church
+with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very
+friendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew
+used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more
+easily for the feeling of protection.
+
+They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for
+him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one
+the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully
+tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann
+undressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to
+love her.
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his
+loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother
+lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of
+thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at
+eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it;
+but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her
+master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off
+Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories
+of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the
+harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One
+evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was
+afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil
+communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who
+were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable
+in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took
+his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like
+disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be
+untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he
+fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he
+went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her
+heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his
+affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her
+demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes
+she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she
+went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann
+explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she
+heard, and she smiled with constraint.
+
+"He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when she
+returned to her sewing.
+
+"One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into
+shape."
+
+On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred.
+Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the
+drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah
+Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which
+the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in
+Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said
+they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had
+been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the
+Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for
+the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate
+than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his
+secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the
+line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a
+Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they
+were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best,
+the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think
+that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he
+had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often
+related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays
+upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was
+sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to
+preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having
+decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an
+election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue
+letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to
+prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his
+mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the
+candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or
+twice irritably.
+
+Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his
+face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the
+dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around
+him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation
+had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin.
+
+"What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed
+to play games on Sunday."
+
+Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit
+was, flushed deeply.
+
+"I always used to play at home," he answered.
+
+"I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as
+that."
+
+Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be
+supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not
+answer.
+
+"Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you
+suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight,
+and how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws
+in the afternoon?"
+
+Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him
+while Philip did so.
+
+"You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you're
+causing your poor mother in heaven."
+
+Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to
+letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent
+the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to
+turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage
+was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one
+saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green
+fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip
+felt infinitely unhappy.
+
+Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the
+stairs.
+
+"Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked.
+
+"No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a
+wink."
+
+This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own
+thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made
+a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept
+before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar
+narrated the facts.
+
+"He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished.
+
+"Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the
+child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be.
+
+Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not
+know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any
+expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined
+to cry, but no word would issue from his lips.
+
+"You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey.
+
+Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously
+now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his
+uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got
+his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said:
+
+"I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in
+a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God."
+
+Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was
+placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his
+uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual
+went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip.
+
+"Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and
+then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening."
+
+She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room.
+
+"Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the
+hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?"
+
+Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would
+not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with
+him.
+
+"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked
+helplessly.
+
+Philip broke his silence at last.
+
+"I want to be left alone," he said.
+
+"Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your
+uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?"
+
+"I hate you. I wish you was dead."
+
+Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a
+start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as
+she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her
+eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even
+though it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could
+scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached
+so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her
+cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief,
+and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was
+crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her
+silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her
+without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin,
+shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little
+boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart
+would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt
+that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new
+love because he had made her suffer.
+
+
+
+IX
+
+
+On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go
+into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were
+conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip
+asked:
+
+"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?"
+
+"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?"
+
+"I can't sit still till tea-time."
+
+Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could
+not suggest that Philip should go into the garden.
+
+"I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day."
+
+He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and
+turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted.
+
+"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in
+to tea you shall have the top of my egg."
+
+Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had
+bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him.
+
+"The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey.
+
+He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful
+blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened
+his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the
+sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought
+him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his
+feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes,
+and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The
+Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep.
+He snored softly.
+
+It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the
+words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the
+works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal
+life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began
+saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him,
+and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more
+than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering:
+there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long
+twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in
+the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside
+his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by
+tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not
+try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory.
+
+Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so
+wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his
+collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle.
+His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in
+the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about
+to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a
+little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door.
+She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and
+then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had
+put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was
+sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders.
+Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the
+child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now
+she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his
+fillings: he hid himself to weep.
+
+Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she
+burst into the drawing-room.
+
+"William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would
+break."
+
+Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs.
+
+"What's he got to cry about?"
+
+"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you
+think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do."
+
+Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless.
+
+"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more
+than ten lines."
+
+"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William?
+There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in
+that."
+
+"Very well, I don't mind."
+
+Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only
+passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two
+in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty
+volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading,
+but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were
+illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them
+he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon
+with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some
+battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel
+engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine.
+She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to
+compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him
+in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went
+in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands
+so that she might not see he had been crying.
+
+"Do you know the collect yet?" she said.
+
+He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his
+voice. She was oddly embarrassed.
+
+"I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp.
+
+"Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture
+books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them
+together."
+
+Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so
+that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him.
+
+"Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born."
+
+She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets.
+In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting
+two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if
+he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads.
+
+"Read what it says," he asked.
+
+Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic
+narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but
+fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that
+followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted
+her.
+
+"I want to see another picture."
+
+When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth.
+Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations.
+It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for
+tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart;
+he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the
+book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with
+her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this
+eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of
+Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed
+itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more
+books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he
+kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip
+took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to
+read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it
+was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys.
+
+Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps
+because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he
+found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart
+beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but
+there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his
+imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a
+Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic
+vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored
+at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the
+darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat
+went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last
+to some strange mansion.
+
+One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of
+The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the
+illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that
+dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again
+and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him.
+He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner.
+Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of
+reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge
+from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating
+for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day
+a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other
+things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he
+occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble
+themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know
+them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one
+time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and
+homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories
+of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last
+discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The
+Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then
+many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding
+along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe.
+
+The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a
+hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And
+here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the
+vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July;
+August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the
+collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the
+Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for
+they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London
+with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman
+who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go
+and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was
+afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was
+going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved
+from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel.
+
+
+
+X
+
+
+The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at
+Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united
+by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon,
+and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to
+aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an
+honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was
+attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr.
+Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of
+September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew
+little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's
+Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little.
+
+When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with
+apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The
+high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There
+was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy,
+untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They
+were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly
+furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a
+forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster.
+
+"What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while.
+
+"You'll see for yourself."
+
+There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not
+come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again.
+
+"Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said.
+
+Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into
+the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet
+high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked
+loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror
+in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's
+small hand in his.
+
+"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted.
+
+Philip reddened and found no word to answer.
+
+"How old are you?"
+
+"Nine," said Philip.
+
+"You must say sir," said his uncle.
+
+"I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed
+cheerily.
+
+To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers.
+Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch.
+
+"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that,
+won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't
+feel so strange."
+
+Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with
+black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and
+a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular
+coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still.
+Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly
+push towards her.
+
+"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey."
+
+Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not
+speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and
+what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little
+embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two
+got up.
+
+"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now."
+
+"That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on
+like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?"
+
+Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great
+bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away.
+
+"Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the
+school-room."
+
+He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly
+limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables
+that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms.
+
+"Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the
+playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself."
+
+Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with
+high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron
+railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the
+buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately,
+kicking up the gravel as he walked.
+
+"Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?"
+
+The small boy came forward and shook hands.
+
+"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully
+him."
+
+The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear
+by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them.
+
+"What's your name?"
+
+"Carey."
+
+"What's your father?"
+
+"He's dead."
+
+"Oh! Does your mother wash?"
+
+"My mother's dead, too."
+
+Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but
+Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little.
+
+"Well, did she wash?" he went on.
+
+"Yes," said Philip indignantly.
+
+"She was a washerwoman then?"
+
+"No, she wasn't."
+
+"Then she didn't wash."
+
+The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then
+he caught sight of Philip's feet.
+
+"What's the matter with your foot?"
+
+Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the
+one which was whole.
+
+"I've got a club-foot," he answered.
+
+"How did you get it?"
+
+"I've always had it."
+
+"Let's have a look."
+
+"No."
+
+"Don't then."
+
+The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin,
+which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was
+so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the
+surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence
+of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and
+he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit
+anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third
+boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed
+that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his
+feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable.
+
+But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to
+talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what
+wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these
+presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was
+anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to
+say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite
+willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket.
+
+"No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot."
+
+The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had
+asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at
+Philip awkwardly.
+
+
+
+XI
+
+
+Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his
+cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he
+was.
+
+"Are you awake, Singer?"
+
+The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was
+a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of
+ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was
+aired in the morning.
+
+Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning,
+and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his
+prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than
+if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was
+beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the
+discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for
+the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his
+washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and
+a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily
+while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and
+they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of
+the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his
+wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an
+impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice
+as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip
+listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and
+the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two
+large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and
+butter.
+
+Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the
+bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and
+followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which
+they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or
+bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey
+whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think
+boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered
+nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some
+parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it.
+
+Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up
+his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them.
+
+After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the
+day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of
+the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as
+the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into
+school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two
+under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one,
+leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To
+attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known
+officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower
+second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a
+pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the
+time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven
+and they were let out for ten minutes' rest.
+
+The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were
+told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along
+opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran
+from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was
+seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he
+became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still
+free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp
+gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made
+straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant
+idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to
+laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping
+grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They
+lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with
+helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as
+he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got
+up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if
+another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of
+Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck
+the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the
+ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He
+could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that
+he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been
+in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him,
+mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he
+did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using
+all his strength to prevent himself from crying.
+
+Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee
+was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice
+could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange
+novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his
+feet. He tucked them under the bench.
+
+In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped
+Philip on the way out after dinner.
+
+"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him.
+
+Philip blushed self-consciously.
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that,
+can't you?"
+
+Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he
+had not changed, asked why he was not going to play.
+
+"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip.
+
+"Why?"
+
+There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of
+shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the
+reply.
+
+"He's got a club-foot, sir."
+
+"Oh, I see."
+
+Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and
+he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but
+he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud.
+
+"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you."
+
+Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in
+groups of two or three.
+
+"You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know
+the way, do you?"
+
+Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.
+
+"I can't go very fast, sir."
+
+"Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile.
+
+Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said
+a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.
+
+But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was
+called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's.
+
+"I say, let's look at your foot," he said.
+
+"No," answered Philip.
+
+He jumped into bed quickly.
+
+"Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason."
+
+The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words
+he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off
+him, but he held them tightly.
+
+"Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried.
+
+Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched
+on the blanket. Philip cried out.
+
+"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?"
+
+"I won't."
+
+In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him,
+but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn
+it.
+
+"Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm."
+
+"Stop still then and put out your foot."
+
+Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The
+pain was unendurable.
+
+"All right. I'll do it," said Philip.
+
+He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He
+looked curiously at the deformity.
+
+"Isn't it beastly?" said Mason.
+
+Another came in and looked too.
+
+"Ugh," he said, in disgust.
+
+"My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?"
+
+He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, ca

<TRUNCATED>

[15/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/orders.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/orders.txt b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/orders.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index d60df82..0000000
--- a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/orders.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,5 +0,0 @@
-222|Toilet plunger
-333|Toilet brush
-222|Toilet paper
-111|Corn flakes
-555|Not ordered
\ No newline at end of file

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/set1.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/set1.txt b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/set1.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 3b67f57..0000000
--- a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/set1.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,4 +0,0 @@
-b
-c
-a
-e
\ No newline at end of file

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/set2.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/set2.txt b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/set2.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 8169ab5..0000000
--- a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/set2.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,3 +0,0 @@
-c
-d
-a
\ No newline at end of file

[05/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/urls.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/urls.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/urls.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 827e711..0000000
--- a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/urls.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,11 +0,0 @@
-www.A.com	www.B.com
-www.A.com	www.C.com
-www.A.com	www.D.com
-www.A.com	www.E.com
-www.B.com	www.D.com
-www.B.com	www.E.com
-www.C.com	www.D.com
-www.D.com	www.B.com
-www.E.com	www.A.com
-www.F.com	www.B.com
-www.F.com	www.C.com

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/customers.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-test/src/main/resources/customers.txt b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/customers.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..98f3f3d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/customers.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
+111|John Doe
+222|Jane Doe
+333|Someone Else
+444|Has No Orders
\ No newline at end of file

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/docs.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-test/src/main/resources/docs.txt b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/docs.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..90a3f65
--- /dev/null
+++ b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/docs.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
+A	this doc has this text
+A	and this text as well
+A	but also this
+B	this doc has some text
+B	but not as much as the last
+B	doc

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/letters.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-test/src/main/resources/letters.txt b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/letters.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..916bfc9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/letters.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+a
+bb
\ No newline at end of file

[14/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/shakes.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/shakes.txt b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/shakes.txt
deleted file mode 100644
index 63acf18..0000000
--- a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/shakes.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,3667 +0,0 @@
-***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
-********************The Tragedie of Macbeth*********************
-
-This is our 3rd edition of most of these plays.  See the index.
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-The Tragedie of Macbeth
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-by William Shakespeare
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-July, 2000  [Etext #2264]
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-
-Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-
-
-
-
-Executive Director's Notes:
-
-In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think all
-the spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time have
-been corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as they
-are presented herein:
-
-  Barnardo. Who's there?
-  Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold
-your selfe
-
-   Bar. Long liue the King
-
-***
-
-As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words
-or letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . .this is the
-original meaning of the term cliche. . .and thus, being unwilling
-to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions
-that look very odd. . .such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,
-above. . .and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming
-Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . .
-
-The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a
-time when they were out of "v"'s. . .possibly having used "vv" in
-place of some "w"'s, etc.  This was a common practice of the day,
-as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend
-more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
-
-You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I
-have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an
-extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a
-very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare.  My father read an
-assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University
-in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the
-purpose.  To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available
-. . .in great detail. . .and determined from the various changes,
-that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a
-variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous
-for signing his name with several different spellings.
-
-So, please take this into account when reading the comments below
-made by our volunteer who prepared this file:  you may see errors
-that are "not" errors. . . .
-
-So. . .with this caveat. . .we have NOT changed the canon errors,
-here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie 
-of Macbeth.
-
-Michael S. Hart
-Project Gutenberg
-Executive Director
-
-
-***
-
-
-Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't.  This was taken from
-a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can
-come in ASCII to the printed text.
-
-The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the
-conjoined ae have been changed to ae.  I have left the spelling,
-punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the
-printed text.  I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put
-together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the
-Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified
-spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded
-abbreviations as I have come across them.  Everything within
-brackets [] is what I have added.  So if you don't like that
-you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a
-purer Shakespeare.
-
-Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual
-differences between various copies of the first folio.  So there may
-be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between
-this and other first folio editions.  This is due to the printer's
-habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and
-then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then
-continuing the printing run.  The proof run wasn't thrown away but
-incorporated into the printed copies.  This is just the way it is.
-The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different
-First Folio editions' best pages.
-
-If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuation
-errors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feel
-free to email me those errors.  I wish to make this the best
-etext possible.  My email address for right now are haradda@aol.com
-and davidr@inconnect.com.  I hope that you enjoy this.
-
-David Reed
-
-The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
-
-Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.
-
-  1. When shall we three meet againe?
-In Thunder, Lightning, or in Raine?
-  2. When the Hurley-burley's done,
-When the Battaile's lost, and wonne
-
-   3. That will be ere the set of Sunne
-
-   1. Where the place?
-  2. Vpon the Heath
-
-   3. There to meet with Macbeth
-
-   1. I come, Gray-Malkin
-
-   All. Padock calls anon: faire is foule, and foule is faire,
-Houer through the fogge and filthie ayre.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Alarum within. Enter King Malcome, Donalbaine, Lenox, with
-attendants,
-meeting a bleeding Captaine.
-
-  King. What bloody man is that? he can report,
-As seemeth by his plight, of the Reuolt
-The newest state
-
-   Mal. This is the Serieant,
-Who like a good and hardie Souldier fought
-'Gainst my Captiuitie: Haile braue friend;
-Say to the King, the knowledge of the Broyle,
-As thou didst leaue it
-
-   Cap. Doubtfull it stood,
-As two spent Swimmers, that doe cling together,
-And choake their Art: The mercilesse Macdonwald
-(Worthie to be a Rebell, for to that
-The multiplying Villanies of Nature
-Doe swarme vpon him) from the Westerne Isles
-Of Kernes and Gallowgrosses is supply'd,
-And Fortune on his damned Quarry smiling,
-Shew'd like a Rebells Whore: but all's too weake:
-For braue Macbeth (well hee deserues that Name)
-Disdayning Fortune, with his brandisht Steele,
-Which smoak'd with bloody execution
-(Like Valours Minion) caru'd out his passage,
-Till hee fac'd the Slaue:
-Which neu'r shooke hands, nor bad farwell to him,
-Till he vnseam'd him from the Naue toth' Chops,
-And fix'd his Head vpon our Battlements
-
-   King. O valiant Cousin, worthy Gentleman
-
-   Cap. As whence the Sunne 'gins his reflection,
-Shipwracking Stormes, and direfull Thunders:
-So from that Spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,
-Discomfort swells: Marke King of Scotland, marke,
-No sooner Iustice had, with Valour arm'd,
-Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their heeles,
-But the Norweyan Lord, surueying vantage,
-With furbusht Armes, and new supplyes of men,
-Began a fresh assault
-
-   King. Dismay'd not this our Captaines, Macbeth and
-Banquoh?
-  Cap. Yes, as Sparrowes, Eagles;
-Or the Hare, the Lyon:
-If I say sooth, I must report they were
-As Cannons ouer-charg'd with double Cracks,
-So they doubly redoubled stroakes vpon the Foe:
-Except they meant to bathe in reeking Wounds,
-Or memorize another Golgotha,
-I cannot tell: but I am faint,
-My Gashes cry for helpe
-
-   King. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds,
-They smack of Honor both: Goe get him Surgeons.
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-Who comes here?
-  Mal. The worthy Thane of Rosse
-
-   Lenox. What a haste lookes through his eyes?
-So should he looke, that seemes to speake things strange
-
-   Rosse. God saue the King
-
-   King. Whence cam'st thou, worthy Thane?
-  Rosse. From Fiffe, great King,
-Where the Norweyan Banners flowt the Skie,
-And fanne our people cold.
-Norway himselfe, with terrible numbers,
-Assisted by that most disloyall Traytor,
-The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismall Conflict,
-Till that Bellona's Bridegroome, lapt in proofe,
-Confronted him with selfe-comparisons,
-Point against Point, rebellious Arme 'gainst Arme,
-Curbing his lauish spirit: and to conclude,
-The Victorie fell on vs
-
-   King. Great happinesse
-
-   Rosse. That now Sweno, the Norwayes King,
-Craues composition:
-Nor would we deigne him buriall of his men,
-Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes ynch,
-Ten thousand Dollars, to our generall vse
-
-   King. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceiue
-Our Bosome interest: Goe pronounce his present death,
-And with his former Title greet Macbeth
-
-   Rosse. Ile see it done
-
-   King. What he hath lost, Noble Macbeth hath wonne.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1. Where hast thou beene, Sister?
-  2. Killing Swine
-
-   3. Sister, where thou?
-  1. A Saylors Wife had Chestnuts in her Lappe,
-And mouncht, & mouncht, and mouncht:
-Giue me, quoth I.
-Aroynt thee, Witch, the rumpe-fed Ronyon cryes.
-Her Husband's to Aleppo gone, Master o'th' Tiger:
-But in a Syue Ile thither sayle,
-And like a Rat without a tayle,
-Ile doe, Ile doe, and Ile doe
-
-   2. Ile giue thee a Winde
-
-   1. Th'art kinde
-
-   3. And I another
-
-   1. I my selfe haue all the other,
-And the very Ports they blow,
-All the Quarters that they know,
-I'th' Ship-mans Card.
-Ile dreyne him drie as Hay:
-Sleepe shall neyther Night nor Day
-Hang vpon his Pent-house Lid:
-He shall liue a man forbid:
-Wearie Seu'nights, nine times nine,
-Shall he dwindle, peake, and pine:
-Though his Barke cannot be lost,
-Yet it shall be Tempest-tost.
-Looke what I haue
-
-   2. Shew me, shew me
-
-   1. Here I haue a Pilots Thumbe,
-Wrackt, as homeward he did come.
-
-Drum within.
-
-  3. A Drumme, a Drumme:
-Macbeth doth come
-
-   All. The weyward Sisters, hand in hand,
-Posters of the Sea and Land,
-Thus doe goe, about, about,
-Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
-And thrice againe, to make vp nine.
-Peace, the Charme's wound vp.
-Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
-
-  Macb. So foule and faire a day I haue not seene
-
-   Banquo. How farre is't call'd to Soris? What are these,
-So wither'd, and so wilde in their attyre,
-That looke not like th' Inhabitants o'th' Earth,
-And yet are on't? Liue you, or are you aught
-That man may question? you seeme to vnderstand me,
-By each at once her choppie finger laying
-Vpon her skinnie Lips: you should be Women,
-And yet your Beards forbid me to interprete
-That you are so
-
-   Mac. Speake if you can: what are you?
-  1. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Glamis
-
-   2. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Cawdor
-
-   3. All haile Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter
-
-   Banq. Good Sir, why doe you start, and seeme to feare
-Things that doe sound so faire? i'th' name of truth
-Are ye fantasticall, or that indeed
-Which outwardly ye shew? My Noble Partner
-You greet with present Grace, and great prediction
-Of Noble hauing, and of Royall hope,
-That he seemes wrapt withall: to me you speake not.
-If you can looke into the Seedes of Time,
-And say, which Graine will grow, and which will not,
-Speake then to me, who neyther begge, nor feare
-Your fauors, nor your hate
-
-   1. Hayle
-
-   2. Hayle
-
-   3. Hayle
-
-   1. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater
-
-   2. Not so happy, yet much happyer
-
-   3. Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none:
-So all haile Macbeth, and Banquo
-
-   1. Banquo, and Macbeth, all haile
-
-   Macb. Stay you imperfect Speakers, tell me more:
-By Sinells death, I know I am Thane of Glamis,
-But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor liues
-A prosperous Gentleman: And to be King,
-Stands not within the prospect of beleefe,
-No more then to be Cawdor. Say from whence
-You owe this strange Intelligence, or why
-Vpon this blasted Heath you stop our way
-With such Prophetique greeting?
-Speake, I charge you.
-
-Witches vanish.
-
-  Banq. The Earth hath bubbles, as the Water ha's,
-And these are of them: whither are they vanish'd?
-  Macb. Into the Ayre: and what seem'd corporall,
-Melted, as breath into the Winde.
-Would they had stay'd
-
-   Banq. Were such things here, as we doe speake about?
-Or haue we eaten on the insane Root,
-That takes the Reason Prisoner?
-  Macb. Your Children shall be Kings
-
-   Banq. You shall be King
-
-   Macb. And Thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?
-  Banq. Toth' selfe-same tune and words: who's here?
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-  Rosse. The King hath happily receiu'd, Macbeth,
-The newes of thy successe: and when he reades
-Thy personall Venture in the Rebels sight,
-His Wonders and his Prayses doe contend,
-Which should be thine, or his: silenc'd with that,
-In viewing o're the rest o'th' selfe-same day,
-He findes thee in the stout Norweyan Rankes,
-Nothing afeard of what thy selfe didst make
-Strange Images of death, as thick as Tale
-Can post with post, and euery one did beare
-Thy prayses in his Kingdomes great defence,
-And powr'd them downe before him
-
-   Ang. Wee are sent,
-To giue thee from our Royall Master thanks,
-Onely to harrold thee into his sight,
-Not pay thee
-
-   Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater Honor,
-He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:
-In which addition, haile most worthy Thane,
-For it is thine
-
-   Banq. What, can the Deuill speake true?
-  Macb. The Thane of Cawdor liues:
-Why doe you dresse me in borrowed Robes?
-  Ang. Who was the Thane, liues yet,
-But vnder heauie Iudgement beares that Life,
-Which he deserues to loose.
-Whether he was combin'd with those of Norway,
-Or did lyne the Rebell with hidden helpe,
-And vantage; or that with both he labour'd
-In his Countreyes wracke, I know not:
-But Treasons Capitall, confess'd, and prou'd,
-Haue ouerthrowne him
-
-   Macb. Glamys, and Thane of Cawdor:
-The greatest is behinde. Thankes for your paines.
-Doe you not hope your Children shall be Kings,
-When those that gaue the Thane of Cawdor to me,
-Promis'd no lesse to them
-
-   Banq. That trusted home,
-Might yet enkindle you vnto the Crowne,
-Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:
-And oftentimes, to winne vs to our harme,
-The Instruments of Darknesse tell vs Truths,
-Winne vs with honest Trifles, to betray's
-In deepest consequence.
-Cousins, a word, I pray you
-
-   Macb. Two Truths are told,
-As happy Prologues to the swelling Act
-Of the Imperiall Theame. I thanke you Gentlemen:
-This supernaturall solliciting
-Cannot be ill; cannot be good.
-If ill? why hath it giuen me earnest of successe,
-Commencing in a Truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
-If good? why doe I yeeld to that suggestion,
-Whose horrid Image doth vnfixe my Heire,
-And make my seated Heart knock at my Ribbes,
-Against the vse of Nature? Present Feares
-Are lesse then horrible Imaginings:
-My Thought, whose Murther yet is but fantasticall,
-Shakes so my single state of Man,
-That Function is smother'd in surmise,
-And nothing is, but what is not
-
-   Banq. Looke how our Partner's rapt
-
-   Macb. If Chance will haue me King,
-Why Chance may Crowne me,
-Without my stirre
-
-   Banq. New Honors come vpon him
-Like our strange Garments, cleaue not to their mould,
-But with the aid of vse
-
-   Macb. Come what come may,
-Time, and the Houre, runs through the roughest Day
-
-   Banq. Worthy Macbeth, wee stay vpon your leysure
-
-   Macb. Giue me your fauour:
-My dull Braine was wrought with things forgotten.
-Kinde Gentlemen, your paines are registred,
-Where euery day I turne the Leafe,
-To reade them.
-Let vs toward the King: thinke vpon
-What hath chanc'd: and at more time,
-The Interim hauing weigh'd it, let vs speake
-Our free Hearts each to other
-
-   Banq. Very gladly
-
-   Macb. Till then enough:
-Come friends.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Flourish. Enter King, Lenox, Malcolme, Donalbaine, and
-Attendants.
-
-  King. Is execution done on Cawdor?
-Or not those in Commission yet return'd?
-  Mal. My Liege, they are not yet come back.
-But I haue spoke with one that saw him die:
-Who did report, that very frankly hee
-Confess'd his Treasons, implor'd your Highnesse Pardon,
-And set forth a deepe Repentance:
-Nothing in his Life became him,
-Like the leauing it. Hee dy'de,
-As one that had beene studied in his death,
-To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,
-As 'twere a carelesse Trifle
-
-   King. There's no Art,
-To finde the Mindes construction in the Face.
-He was a Gentleman, on whom I built
-An absolute Trust.
-Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Rosse, and Angus.
-
-O worthyest Cousin,
-The sinne of my Ingratitude euen now
-Was heauie on me. Thou art so farre before,
-That swiftest Wing of Recompence is slow,
-To ouertake thee. Would thou hadst lesse deseru'd,
-That the proportion both of thanks, and payment,
-Might haue beene mine: onely I haue left to say,
-More is thy due, then more then all can pay
-
-   Macb. The seruice, and the loyaltie I owe,
-In doing it, payes it selfe.
-Your Highnesse part, is to receiue our Duties:
-And our Duties are to your Throne, and State,
-Children, and Seruants; which doe but what they should,
-By doing euery thing safe toward your Loue
-And Honor
-
-   King. Welcome hither:
-I haue begun to plant thee, and will labour
-To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
-That hast no lesse deseru'd, nor must be knowne
-No lesse to haue done so: Let me enfold thee,
-And hold thee to my Heart
-
-   Banq. There if I grow,
-The Haruest is your owne
-
-   King. My plenteous Ioyes,
-Wanton in fulnesse, seeke to hide themselues
-In drops of sorrow. Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,
-And you whose places are the nearest, know,
-We will establish our Estate vpon
-Our eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,
-The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor must
-Not vnaccompanied, inuest him onely,
-But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shine
-On all deseruers. From hence to Envernes,
-And binde vs further to you
-
-   Macb. The Rest is Labor, which is not vs'd for you:
-Ile be my selfe the Herbenger, and make ioyfull
-The hearing of my Wife, with your approach:
-So humbly take my leaue
-
-   King. My worthy Cawdor
-
-   Macb. The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step,
-On which I must fall downe, or else o're-leape,
-For in my way it lyes. Starres hide your fires,
-Let not Light see my black and deepe desires:
-The Eye winke at the Hand: yet let that bee,
-Which the Eye feares, when it is done to see.
-Enter.
-
-  King. True worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,
-And in his commendations, I am fed:
-It is a Banquet to me. Let's after him,
-Whose care is gone before, to bid vs welcome:
-It is a peerelesse Kinsman.
-
-Flourish. Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Enter Macbeths Wife alone with a Letter.
-
-  Lady. They met me in the day of successe: and I haue
-learn'd by the perfect'st report, they haue more in them, then
-mortall knowledge. When I burnt in desire to question them
-further, they made themselues Ayre, into which they vanish'd.
-Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missiues from
-the King, who all-hail'd me Thane of Cawdor, by which Title
-before, these weyward Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me to
-the comming on of time, with haile King that shalt be. This
-haue I thought good to deliuer thee (my dearest Partner of
-Greatnesse) that thou might'st not loose the dues of reioycing
-by being ignorant of what Greatnesse is promis'd thee. Lay
-it to thy heart and farewell.
-Glamys thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
-What thou art promis'd: yet doe I feare thy Nature,
-It is too full o'th' Milke of humane kindnesse,
-To catch the neerest way. Thou would'st be great,
-Art not without Ambition, but without
-The illnesse should attend it. What thou would'st highly,
-That would'st thou holily: would'st not play false,
-And yet would'st wrongly winne.
-Thould'st haue, great Glamys, that which cryes,
-Thus thou must doe, if thou haue it;
-And that which rather thou do'st feare to doe,
-Then wishest should be vndone. High thee hither,
-That I may powre my Spirits in thine Eare,
-And chastise with the valour of my Tongue
-All that impeides thee from the Golden Round,
-Which Fate and Metaphysicall ayde doth seeme
-To haue thee crown'd withall.
-Enter Messenger.
-
-What is your tidings?
-  Mess. The King comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it.
-Is not thy Master with him? who, wer't so,
-Would haue inform'd for preparation
-
-   Mess. So please you, it is true: our Thane is comming:
-One of my fellowes had the speed of him;
-Who almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
-Then would make vp his Message
-
-   Lady. Giue him tending,
-He brings great newes,
-
-Exit Messenger.
-
-The Rauen himselfe is hoarse,
-That croakes the fatall entrance of Duncan
-Vnder my Battlements. Come you Spirits,
-That tend on mortall thoughts, vnsex me here,
-And fill me from the Crowne to the Toe, top-full
-Of direst Crueltie: make thick my blood,
-Stop vp th' accesse, and passage to Remorse,
-That no compunctious visitings of Nature
-Shake my fell purpose, nor keepe peace betweene
-Th' effect, and hit. Come to my Womans Brests,
-And take my Milke for Gall, you murth'ring Ministers,
-Where-euer, in your sightlesse substances,
-You wait on Natures Mischiefe. Come thick Night,
-And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell,
-
-That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes,
-Nor Heauen peepe through the Blanket of the darke,
-To cry, hold, hold.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-Great Glamys, worthy Cawdor,
-Greater then both, by the all-haile hereafter,
-Thy Letters haue transported me beyond
-This ignorant present, and I feele now
-The future in the instant
-
-   Macb. My dearest Loue,
-Duncan comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. And when goes hence?
-  Macb. To morrow, as he purposes
-
-   Lady. O neuer,
-Shall Sunne that Morrow see.
-Your Face, my Thane, is as a Booke, where men
-May reade strange matters, to beguile the time.
-Looke like the time, beare welcome in your Eye,
-Your Hand, your Tongue: looke like th' innocent flower,
-But be the Serpent vnder't. He that's comming,
-Must be prouided for: and you shall put
-This Nights great Businesse into my dispatch,
-Which shall to all our Nights, and Dayes to come,
-Giue solely soueraigne sway, and Masterdome
-
-   Macb. We will speake further,
-  Lady. Onely looke vp cleare:
-To alter fauor, euer is to feare:
-Leaue all the rest to me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Sexta.
-
-Hoboyes, and Torches. Enter King, Malcolme, Donalbaine,
-Banquo, Lenox,
-Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and Attendants.
-
-  King. This Castle hath a pleasant seat,
-The ayre nimbly and sweetly recommends it selfe
-Vnto our gentle sences
-
-   Banq. This Guest of Summer,
-The Temple-haunting Barlet does approue,
-By his loued Mansonry, that the Heauens breath
-Smells wooingly here: no Iutty frieze,
-Buttrice, nor Coigne of Vantage, but this Bird
-Hath made his pendant Bed, and procreant Cradle,
-Where they must breed, and haunt: I haue obseru'd
-The ayre is delicate.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  King. See, see our honor'd Hostesse:
-The Loue that followes vs, sometime is our trouble,
-Which still we thanke as Loue. Herein I teach you,
-How you shall bid God-eyld vs for your paines,
-And thanke vs for your trouble
-
-   Lady. All our seruice,
-In euery point twice done, and then done double,
-Were poore, and single Businesse, to contend
-Against those Honors deepe, and broad,
-Wherewith your Maiestie loades our House:
-For those of old, and the late Dignities,
-Heap'd vp to them, we rest your Ermites
-
-   King. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
-We courst him at the heeles, and had a purpose
-To be his Purueyor: But he rides well,
-And his great Loue (sharpe as his Spurre) hath holp him
-To his home before vs: Faire and Noble Hostesse
-We are your guest to night
-
-   La. Your Seruants euer,
-Haue theirs, themselues, and what is theirs in compt,
-To make their Audit at your Highnesse pleasure,
-Still to returne your owne
-
-   King. Giue me your hand:
-Conduct me to mine Host we loue him highly,
-And shall continue, our Graces towards him.
-By your leaue Hostesse.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Septima.
-
-Hoboyes. Torches. Enter a Sewer, and diuers Seruants with Dishes
-and
-Seruice ouer the Stage. Then enter Macbeth
-
-   Macb. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twer well,
-It were done quickly: If th' Assassination
-Could trammell vp the Consequence, and catch
-With his surcease, Successe: that but this blow
-Might be the be all, and the end all. Heere,
-But heere, vpon this Banke and Schoole of time,
-Wee'ld iumpe the life to come. But in these Cases,
-We still haue iudgement heere, that we but teach
-Bloody Instructions, which being taught, returne
-To plague th' Inuenter, this euen-handed Iustice
-Commends th' Ingredience of our poyson'd Challice
-To our owne lips. Hee's heere in double trust;
-First, as I am his Kinsman, and his Subiect,
-Strong both against the Deed: Then, as his Host,
-Who should against his Murtherer shut the doore,
-Not beare the knife my selfe. Besides, this Duncane
-Hath borne his Faculties so meeke; hath bin
-So cleere in his great Office, that his Vertues
-Will pleade like Angels, Trumpet-tongu'd against
-The deepe damnation of his taking off:
-And Pitty, like a naked New-borne-Babe,
-Striding the blast, or Heauens Cherubin, hors'd
-Vpon the sightlesse Curriors of the Ayre,
-Shall blow the horrid deed in euery eye,
-That teares shall drowne the winde. I haue no Spurre
-To pricke the sides of my intent, but onely
-Vaulting Ambition, which ore-leapes it selfe,
-And falles on th' other.
-Enter Lady.
-
-How now? What Newes?
-  La. He has almost supt: why haue you left the chamber?
-  Mac. Hath he ask'd for me?
-  La. Know you not, he ha's?
-  Mac. We will proceed no further in this Businesse:
-He hath Honour'd me of late, and I haue bought
-Golden Opinions from all sorts of people,
-Which would be worne now in their newest glosse,
-Not cast aside so soone
-
-   La. Was the hope drunke,
-Wherein you drest your selfe? Hath it slept since?
-And wakes it now to looke so greene, and pale,
-At what it did so freely? From this time,
-Such I account thy loue. Art thou affear'd
-To be the same in thine owne Act, and Valour,
-As thou art in desire? Would'st thou haue that
-Which thou esteem'st the Ornament of Life,
-And liue a Coward in thine owne Esteeme?
-Letting I dare not, wait vpon I would,
-Like the poore Cat i'th' Addage
-
-   Macb. Prythee peace:
-I dare do all that may become a man,
-Who dares do more, is none
-
-   La. What Beast was't then
-That made you breake this enterprize to me?
-When you durst do it, then you were a man:
-And to be more then what you were, you would
-Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place
-Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
-They haue made themselues, and that their fitnesse now
-Do's vnmake you. I haue giuen Sucke, and know
-How tender 'tis to loue the Babe that milkes me,
-I would, while it was smyling in my Face,
-Haue pluckt my Nipple from his Bonelesse Gummes,
-And dasht the Braines out, had I so sworne
-As you haue done to this
-
-   Macb. If we should faile?
-  Lady. We faile?
-But screw your courage to the sticking place,
-And wee'le not fayle: when Duncan is asleepe,
-(Whereto the rather shall his dayes hard Iourney
-Soundly inuite him) his two Chamberlaines
-Will I with Wine, and Wassell, so conuince,
-That Memorie, the Warder of the Braine,
-Shall be a Fume, and the Receit of Reason
-A Lymbeck onely: when in Swinish sleepe,
-Their drenched Natures lyes as in a Death,
-What cannot you and I performe vpon
-Th' vnguarded Duncan? What not put vpon
-His spungie Officers? who shall beare the guilt
-Of our great quell
-
-   Macb. Bring forth Men-Children onely:
-For thy vndaunted Mettle should compose
-Nothing but Males. Will it not be receiu'd,
-When we haue mark'd with blood those sleepie two
-Of his owne Chamber, and vs'd their very Daggers,
-That they haue don't?
-  Lady. Who dares receiue it other,
-As we shall make our Griefes and Clamor rore,
-Vpon his Death?
-  Macb. I am settled, and bend vp
-Each corporall Agent to this terrible Feat.
-Away, and mock the time with fairest show,
-False Face must hide what the false Heart doth know.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo, and Fleance, with a Torch before him.
-
-  Banq. How goes the Night, Boy?
-  Fleance. The Moone is downe: I haue not heard the
-Clock
-
-   Banq. And she goes downe at Twelue
-
-   Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir
-
-   Banq. Hold, take my Sword:
-There's Husbandry in Heauen,
-Their Candles are all out: take thee that too.
-A heauie Summons lyes like Lead vpon me,
-And yet I would not sleepe:
-Mercifull Powers, restraine in me the cursed thoughts
-That Nature giues way to in repose.
-Enter Macbeth, and a Seruant with a Torch.
-
-Giue me my Sword: who's there?
-  Macb. A Friend
-
-   Banq. What Sir, not yet at rest? the King's a bed.
-He hath beene in vnusuall Pleasure,
-And sent forth great Largesse to your Offices.
-This Diamond he greetes your Wife withall,
-By the name of most kind Hostesse,
-And shut vp in measurelesse content
-
-   Mac. Being vnprepar'd,
-Our will became the seruant to defect,
-Which else should free haue wrought
-
-   Banq. All's well.
-I dreamt last Night of the three weyward Sisters:
-To you they haue shew'd some truth
-
-   Macb. I thinke not of them:
-Yet when we can entreat an houre to serue,
-We would spend it in some words vpon that Businesse,
-If you would graunt the time
-
-   Banq. At your kind'st leysure
-
-   Macb. If you shall cleaue to my consent,
-When 'tis, it shall make Honor for you
-
-   Banq. So I lose none,
-In seeking to augment it, but still keepe
-My Bosome franchis'd, and Allegeance cleare,
-I shall be counsail'd
-
-   Macb. Good repose the while
-
-   Banq. Thankes Sir: the like to you.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-  Macb. Goe bid thy Mistresse, when my drinke is ready,
-She strike vpon the Bell. Get thee to bed.
-Enter.
-
-Is this a Dagger, which I see before me,
-The Handle toward my Hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
-I haue thee not, and yet I see thee still.
-Art thou not fatall Vision, sensible
-To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
-A Dagger of the Minde, a false Creation,
-Proceeding from the heat-oppressed Braine?
-I see thee yet, in forme as palpable,
-As this which now I draw.
-Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
-And such an Instrument I was to vse.
-Mine Eyes are made the fooles o'th' other Sences,
-Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
-And on thy Blade, and Dudgeon, Gouts of Blood,
-Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
-It is the bloody Businesse, which informes
-Thus to mine Eyes. Now o're the one halfe World
-Nature seemes dead, and wicked Dreames abuse
-The Curtain'd sleepe: Witchcraft celebrates
-Pale Heccats Offrings: and wither'd Murther,
-Alarum'd by his Centinell, the Wolfe,
-Whose howle's his Watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
-With Tarquins rauishing sides, towards his designe
-Moues like a Ghost. Thou sowre and firme-set Earth
-Heare not my steps, which they may walke, for feare
-Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
-And take the present horror from the time,
-Which now sutes with it. Whiles I threat, he liues:
-Words to the heat of deedes too cold breath giues.
-
-A Bell rings.
-
-I goe, and it is done: the Bell inuites me.
-Heare it not, Duncan, for it is a Knell,
-That summons thee to Heauen, or to Hell.
-Enter.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Lady.
-
-  La. That which hath made the[m] drunk, hath made me bold:
-What hath quench'd them, hath giuen me fire.
-Hearke, peace: it was the Owle that shriek'd,
-The fatall Bell-man, which giues the stern'st good-night.
-He is about it, the Doores are open:
-And the surfeted Groomes doe mock their charge
-With Snores. I haue drugg'd their Possets,
-That Death and Nature doe contend about them,
-Whether they liue, or dye.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. Who's there? what hoa?
-  Lady. Alack, I am afraid they haue awak'd,
-And 'tis not done: th' attempt, and not the deed,
-Confounds vs: hearke: I lay'd their Daggers ready,
-He could not misse 'em. Had he not resembled
-My Father as he slept, I had don't.
-My Husband?
-  Macb. I haue done the deed:
-Didst thou not heare a noyse?
-  Lady. I heard the Owle schreame, and the Crickets cry.
-Did not you speake?
-  Macb. When?
-  Lady. Now
-
-   Macb. As I descended?
-  Lady. I
-
-   Macb. Hearke, who lyes i'th' second Chamber?
-  Lady. Donalbaine
-
-   Mac. This is a sorry sight
-
-   Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight
-
-   Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleepe,
-And one cry'd Murther, that they did wake each other:
-I stood, and heard them: But they did say their Prayers,
-And addrest them againe to sleepe
-
-   Lady. There are two lodg'd together
-
-   Macb. One cry'd God blesse vs, and Amen the other,
-As they had seene me with these Hangmans hands:
-Listning their feare, I could not say Amen,
-When they did say God blesse vs
-
-   Lady. Consider it not so deepely
-
-   Mac. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen?
-I had most need of Blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat
-
-   Lady. These deeds must not be thought
-After these wayes: so, it will make vs mad
-
-   Macb. Me thought I heard a voyce cry, Sleep no more:
-Macbeth does murther Sleepe, the innocent Sleepe,
-Sleepe that knits vp the rauel'd Sleeue of Care,
-The death of each dayes Life, sore Labors Bath,
-Balme of hurt Mindes, great Natures second Course,
-Chiefe nourisher in Life's Feast
-
-   Lady. What doe you meane?
-  Macb. Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the House:
-Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and therefore Cawdor
-Shall sleepe no more: Macbeth shall sleepe no more
-
-   Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why worthy Thane,
-You doe vnbend your Noble strength, to thinke
-So braine-sickly of things: Goe get some Water,
-And wash this filthie Witnesse from your Hand.
-Why did you bring these Daggers from the place?
-They must lye there: goe carry them, and smeare
-The sleepie Groomes with blood
-
-   Macb. Ile goe no more:
-I am afraid, to thinke what I haue done:
-Looke on't againe, I dare not
-
-   Lady. Infirme of purpose:
-Giue me the Daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
-Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Childhood,
-That feares a painted Deuill. If he doe bleed,
-Ile guild the Faces of the Groomes withall,
-For it must seeme their Guilt.
-Enter.
-
-Knocke within.
-
-  Macb. Whence is that knocking?
-How is't with me, when euery noyse appalls me?
-What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes.
-Will all great Neptunes Ocean wash this blood
-Cleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather
-The multitudinous Seas incarnardine,
-Making the Greene one, Red.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. My Hands are of your colour: but I shame
-To weare a Heart so white.
-
-Knocke.
-
-I heare a knocking at the South entry:
-Retyre we to our Chamber:
-A little Water cleares vs of this deed.
-How easie is it then? your Constancie
-Hath left you vnattended.
-
-Knocke.
-
-Hearke, more knocking.
-Get on your Night-Gowne, least occasion call vs,
-And shew vs to be Watchers: be not lost
-So poorely in your thoughts
-
-   Macb. To know my deed,
-
-Knocke.
-
-'Twere best not know my selfe.
-Wake Duncan with thy knocking:
-I would thou could'st.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
-
-  Porter. Here's a knocking indeede: if a man were
-Porter of Hell Gate, hee should haue old turning the
-Key.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there
-i'th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hang'd
-himselfe on th' expectation of Plentie: Come in time, haue
-Napkins enow about you, here you'le sweat for't.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name?
-Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in both
-the Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treason
-enough for Gods sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen:
-oh come in, Equiuocator.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an English
-Taylor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose:
-Come in Taylor, here you may rost your Goose.
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but this
-place is too cold for Hell. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further:
-I had thought to haue let in some of all Professions, that
-goe the Primrose way to th' euerlasting Bonfire.
-
-Knock.
-
-Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.
-Enter Macduff, and Lenox.
-
-  Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed,
-That you doe lye so late?
-  Port. Faith Sir, we were carowsing till the second Cock:
-And Drinke, Sir, is a great prouoker of three things
-
-   Macd. What three things does Drinke especially
-prouoke?
-  Port. Marry, Sir, Nose-painting, Sleepe, and Vrine.
-Lecherie, Sir, it prouokes, and vnprouokes: it prouokes
-the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore
-much Drinke may be said to be an Equiuocator with Lecherie:
-it makes him, and it marres him; it sets him on,
-and it takes him off; it perswades him, and dis-heartens
-him; makes him stand too, and not stand too: in conclusion,
-equiuocates him in a sleepe, and giuing him the Lye,
-leaues him
-
-   Macd. I beleeue, Drinke gaue thee the Lye last Night
-
-   Port. That it did, Sir, i'the very Throat on me: but I
-requited him for his Lye, and (I thinke) being too strong
-for him, though he tooke vp my Legges sometime, yet I
-made a Shift to cast him.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macd. Is thy Master stirring?
-Our knocking ha's awak'd him: here he comes
-
-   Lenox. Good morrow, Noble Sir
-
-   Macb. Good morrow both
-
-   Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?
-  Macb. Not yet
-
-   Macd. He did command me to call timely on him,
-I haue almost slipt the houre
-
-   Macb. Ile bring you to him
-
-   Macd. I know this is a ioyfull trouble to you:
-But yet 'tis one
-
-   Macb. The labour we delight in, Physicks paine:
-This is the Doore
-
-   Macd. Ile make so bold to call, for 'tis my limitted
-seruice.
-
-Exit Macduffe.
-
-  Lenox. Goes the King hence to day?
-  Macb. He does: he did appoint so
-
-   Lenox. The Night ha's been vnruly:
-Where we lay, our Chimneys were blowne downe,
-And (as they say) lamentings heard i'th' Ayre;
-Strange Schreemes of Death,
-And Prophecying, with Accents terrible,
-Of dyre Combustion, and confus'd Euents,
-New hatch'd toth' wofull time.
-The obscure Bird clamor'd the liue-long Night.
-Some say, the Earth was Feuorous,
-And did shake
-
-   Macb. 'Twas a rough Night
-
-   Lenox. My young remembrance cannot paralell
-A fellow to it.
-Enter Macduff.
-
-  Macd. O horror, horror, horror,
-Tongue nor Heart cannot conceiue, nor name thee
-
-   Macb. and Lenox. What's the matter?
-  Macd. Confusion now hath made his Master-peece:
-Most sacrilegious Murther hath broke ope
-The Lords anoynted Temple, and stole thence
-The Life o'th' Building
-
-   Macb. What is't you say, the Life?
-  Lenox. Meane you his Maiestie?
-  Macd. Approch the Chamber, and destroy your sight
-With a new Gorgon. Doe not bid me speake:
-See, and then speake your selues: awake, awake,
-
-Exeunt. Macbeth and Lenox.
-
-Ring the Alarum Bell: Murther, and Treason,
-Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolme awake,
-Shake off this Downey sleepe, Deaths counterfeit,
-And looke on Death it selfe: vp, vp, and see
-The great Doomes Image: Malcolme, Banquo,
-As from your Graues rise vp, and walke like Sprights,
-To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell.
-
-Bell rings. Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. What's the Businesse?
-That such a hideous Trumpet calls to parley
-The sleepers of the House? speake, speake
-
-   Macd. O gentle Lady,
-'Tis not for you to heare what I can speake:
-The repetition in a Womans eare,
-Would murther as it fell.
-Enter Banquo.
-
-O Banquo, Banquo, Our Royall Master's murther'd
-
-   Lady. Woe, alas:
-What, in our House?
-  Ban. Too cruell, any where.
-Deare Duff, I prythee contradict thy selfe,
-And say, it is not so.
-Enter Macbeth, Lenox, and Rosse.
-
-  Macb. Had I but dy'd an houre before this chance,
-I had liu'd a blessed time: for from this instant,
-There's nothing serious in Mortalitie:
-All is but Toyes: Renowne and Grace is dead,
-The Wine of Life is drawne, and the meere Lees
-Is left this Vault, to brag of.
-Enter Malcolme and Donalbaine.
-
-  Donal. What is amisse?
-  Macb. You are, and doe not know't:
-The Spring, the Head, the Fountaine of your Blood
-Is stopt, the very Source of it is stopt
-
-   Macd. Your Royall Father's murther'd
-
-   Mal. Oh, by whom?
-  Lenox. Those of his Chamber, as it seem'd, had don't:
-Their Hands and Faces were all badg'd with blood,
-So were their Daggers, which vnwip'd, we found
-Vpon their Pillowes: they star'd, and were distracted,
-No mans Life was to be trusted with them
-
-   Macb. O, yet I doe repent me of my furie,
-That I did kill them
-
-   Macd. Wherefore did you so?
-  Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temp'rate, & furious,
-Loyall, and Neutrall, in a moment? No man:
-Th' expedition of my violent Loue
-Out-run the pawser, Reason. Here lay Duncan,
-His Siluer skinne, lac'd with His Golden Blood,
-And his gash'd Stabs, look'd like a Breach in Nature,
-For Ruines wastfull entrance: there the Murtherers,
-Steep'd in the Colours of their Trade; their Daggers
-Vnmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refraine,
-That had a heart to loue; and in that heart,
-Courage, to make's loue knowne?
-  Lady. Helpe me hence, hoa
-
-   Macd. Looke to the Lady
-
-   Mal. Why doe we hold our tongues,
-That most may clayme this argument for ours?
-  Donal. What should be spoken here,
-Where our Fate hid in an augure hole,
-May rush, and seize vs? Let's away,
-Our Teares are not yet brew'd
-
-   Mal. Nor our strong Sorrow
-Vpon the foot of Motion
-
-   Banq. Looke to the Lady:
-And when we haue our naked Frailties hid,
-That suffer in exposure; let vs meet,
-And question this most bloody piece of worke,
-To know it further. Feares and scruples shake vs:
-In the great Hand of God I stand, and thence,
-Against the vndivulg'd pretence, I fight
-Of Treasonous Mallice
-
-   Macd. And so doe I
-
-   All. So all
-
-   Macb. Let's briefely put on manly readinesse,
-And meet i'th' Hall together
-
-   All. Well contented.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-  Malc. What will you doe?
-Let's not consort with them:
-To shew an vnfelt Sorrow, is an Office
-Which the false man do's easie.
-Ile to England
-
-   Don. To Ireland, I:
-Our seperated fortune shall keepe vs both the safer:
-Where we are, there's Daggers in mens smiles;
-The neere in blood, the neerer bloody
-
-   Malc. This murtherous Shaft that's shot,
-Hath not yet lighted: and our safest way,
-Is to auoid the ayme. Therefore to Horse,
-And let vs not be daintie of leaue-taking,
-But shift away: there's warrant in that Theft,
-Which steales it selfe, when there's no mercie left.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Enter Rosse, with an Old man.
-
-  Old man. Threescore and ten I can remember well,
-Within the Volume of which Time, I haue seene
-Houres dreadfull, and things strange: but this sore Night
-Hath trifled former knowings
-
-   Rosse. Ha, good Father,
-Thou seest the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act,
-Threatens his bloody Stage: byth' Clock 'tis Day,
-And yet darke Night strangles the trauailing Lampe:
-Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes shame,
-That Darknesse does the face of Earth intombe,
-When liuing Light should kisse it?
-  Old man. 'Tis vnnaturall,
-Euen like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last,
-A Faulcon towring in her pride of place,
-Was by a Mowsing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd
-
-   Rosse. And Duncans Horses,
-(A thing most strange, and certaine)
-Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race,
-Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their stalls, flong out,
-Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they would
-Make Warre with Mankinde
-
-   Old man. 'Tis said, they eate each other
-
-   Rosse. They did so:
-To th' amazement of mine eyes that look'd vpon't.
-Enter Macduffe.
-
-Heere comes the good Macduffe.
-How goes the world Sir, now?
-  Macd. Why see you not?
-  Ross. Is't known who did this more then bloody deed?
-  Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slaine
-
-   Ross. Alas the day,
-What good could they pretend?
-  Macd. They were subborned,
-Malcolme, and Donalbaine the Kings two Sonnes
-Are stolne away and fled, which puts vpon them
-Suspition of the deed
-
-   Rosse. 'Gainst Nature still,
-Thriftlesse Ambition, that will rauen vp
-Thine owne liues meanes: Then 'tis most like,
-The Soueraignty will fall vpon Macbeth
-
-   Macd. He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone
-To be inuested
-
-   Rosse. Where is Duncans body?
-  Macd. Carried to Colmekill,
-The Sacred Store-house of his Predecessors,
-And Guardian of their Bones
-
-   Rosse. Will you to Scone?
-  Macd. No Cosin, Ile to Fife
-
-   Rosse. Well, I will thither
-
-   Macd. Well may you see things wel done there: Adieu
-Least our old Robes sit easier then our new
-
-   Rosse. Farewell, Father
-
-   Old M. Gods benyson go with you, and with those
-That would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes.
-
-Exeunt. omnes
-
-Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo.
-
-  Banq. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
-As the weyard Women promis'd, and I feare
-Thou playd'st most fowly for't: yet it was saide
-It should not stand in thy Posterity,
-But that my selfe should be the Roote, and Father
-Of many Kings. If there come truth from them,
-As vpon thee Macbeth, their Speeches shine,
-Why by the verities on thee made good,
-May they not be my Oracles as well,
-And set me vp in hope. But hush, no more.
-
-Senit sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Lenox, Rosse, Lords,
-and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. Heere's our chiefe Guest
-
-   La. If he had beene forgotten,
-It had bene as a gap in our great Feast,
-And all-thing vnbecomming
-
-   Macb. To night we hold a solemne Supper sir,
-And Ile request your presence
-
-   Banq. Let your Highnesse
-Command vpon me, to the which my duties
-Are with a most indissoluble tye
-For euer knit
-
-   Macb. Ride you this afternoone?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. We should haue else desir'd your good aduice
-(Which still hath been both graue, and prosperous)
-In this dayes Councell: but wee'le take to morrow.
-Is't farre you ride?
-  Ban. As farre, my Lord, as will fill vp the time
-'Twixt this, and Supper. Goe not my Horse the better,
-I must become a borrower of the Night,
-For a darke houre, or twaine
-
-   Macb. Faile not our Feast
-
-   Ban. My Lord, I will not
-
-   Macb. We heare our bloody Cozens are bestow'd
-In England, and in Ireland, not confessing
-Their cruell Parricide, filling their hearers
-With strange inuention. But of that to morrow,
-When therewithall, we shall haue cause of State,
-Crauing vs ioyntly. Hye you to Horse:
-Adieu, till you returne at Night.
-Goes Fleance with you?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord: our time does call vpon's
-
-   Macb. I wish your Horses swift, and sure of foot:
-And so I doe commend you to their backs.
-Farwell.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-Let euery man be master of his time,
-Till seuen at Night, to make societie
-The sweeter welcome:
-We will keepe our selfe till Supper time alone:
-While then, God be with you.
-
-Exeunt. Lords.
-
-Sirrha, a word with you: Attend those men
-Our pleasure?
-  Seruant. They are, my Lord, without the Pallace
-Gate
-
-   Macb. Bring them before vs.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-To be thus, is nothing, but to be safely thus
-Our feares in Banquo sticke deepe,
-And in his Royaltie of Nature reignes that
-Which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
-And to that dauntlesse temper of his Minde,
-He hath a Wisdome, that doth guide his Valour,
-To act in safetie. There is none but he,
-Whose being I doe feare: and vnder him,
-My Genius is rebuk'd, as it is said
-Mark Anthonies was by Caesar. He chid the Sisters,
-When first they put the Name of King vpon me,
-And bad them speake to him. Then Prophet-like,
-They hayl'd him Father to a Line of Kings.
-Vpon my Head they plac'd a fruitlesse Crowne,
-And put a barren Scepter in my Gripe,
-Thence to be wrencht with an vnlineall Hand,
-No Sonne of mine succeeding: if't be so,
-For Banquo's Issue haue I fil'd my Minde,
-For them, the gracious Duncan haue I murther'd,
-Put Rancours in the Vessell of my Peace
-Onely for them, and mine eternall Iewell
-Giuen to the common Enemie of Man,
-To make them Kings, the Seedes of Banquo Kings.
-Rather then so, come Fate into the Lyst,
-And champion me to th' vtterance.
-Who's there?
-Enter Seruant, and two Murtherers.
-
-Now goe to the Doore, and stay there till we call.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
-  Murth. It was, so please your Highnesse
-
-   Macb. Well then,
-Now haue you consider'd of my speeches:
-Know, that it was he, in the times past,
-Which held you so vnder fortune,
-Which you thought had been our innocent selfe.
-This I made good to you, in our last conference,
-Past in probation with you:
-How you were borne in hand, how crost:
-The Instruments: who wrought with them:
-And all things else, that might
-To halfe a Soule, and to a Notion craz'd,
-Say, Thus did Banquo
-
-   1.Murth. You made it knowne to vs
-
-   Macb. I did so:
-And went further, which is now
-Our point of second meeting.
-Doe you finde your patience so predominant,
-In your nature, that you can let this goe?
-Are you so Gospell'd, to pray for this good man,
-And for his Issue, whose heauie hand
-Hath bow'd you to the Graue, and begger'd
-Yours for euer?
-  1.Murth. We are men, my Liege
-
-   Macb. I, in the Catalogue ye goe for men,
-As Hounds, and Greyhounds, Mungrels, Spaniels, Curres,
-Showghes, Water-Rugs, and Demy-Wolues are clipt
-All by the Name of Dogges: the valued file
-Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
-The House-keeper, the Hunter, euery one
-According to the gift, which bounteous Nature
-Hath in him clos'd: whereby he does receiue
-Particular addition, from the Bill,
-That writes them all alike: and so of men.
-Now, if you haue a station in the file,
-Not i'th' worst ranke of Manhood, say't,
-And I will put that Businesse in your Bosomes,
-Whose execution takes your Enemie off,
-Grapples you to the heart; and loue of vs,
-Who weare our Health but sickly in his Life,
-Which in his Death were perfect
-
-   2.Murth. I am one, my Liege,
-Whom the vile Blowes and Buffets of the World
-Hath so incens'd, that I am recklesse what I doe,
-To spight the World
-
-   1.Murth. And I another,
-So wearie with Disasters, tugg'd with Fortune,
-That I would set my Life on any Chance,
-To mend it, or be rid on't
-
-   Macb. Both of you know Banquo was your Enemie
-
-   Murth. True, my Lord
-
-   Macb. So is he mine: and in such bloody distance,
-That euery minute of his being, thrusts
-Against my neer'st of Life: and though I could
-With bare-fac'd power sweepe him from my sight,
-And bid my will auouch it; yet I must not,
-For certaine friends that are both his, and mine,
-Whose loues I may not drop, but wayle his fall,
-Who I my selfe struck downe: and thence it is,
-That I to your assistance doe make loue,
-Masking the Businesse from the common Eye,
-For sundry weightie Reasons
-
-   2.Murth. We shall, my Lord,
-Performe what you command vs
-
-   1.Murth. Though our Liues-
-  Macb. Your Spirits shine through you.
-Within this houre, at most,
-I will aduise you where to plant your selues,
-Acquaint you with the perfect Spy o'th' time,
-The moment on't, for't must be done to Night,
-And something from the Pallace: alwayes thought,
-That I require a clearenesse; and with him,
-To leaue no Rubs nor Botches in the Worke:
-  Fleans , his Sonne, that keepes him companie,
-Whose absence is no lesse materiall to me,
-Then is his Fathers, must embrace the fate
-Of that darke houre: resolue your selues apart,
-Ile come to you anon
-
-   Murth. We are resolu'd, my Lord
-
-   Macb. Ile call vpon you straight: abide within,
-It is concluded: Banquo, thy Soules flight,
-If it finde Heauen, must finde it out to Night.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macbeths Lady, and a Seruant.
-
-  Lady. Is Banquo gone from Court?
-  Seruant. I, Madame, but returnes againe to Night
-
-   Lady. Say to the King, I would attend his leysure,
-For a few words
-
-   Seruant. Madame, I will.
-Enter.
-
-  Lady. Nought's had, all's spent.
-Where our desire is got without content:
-'Tis safer, to be that which we destroy,
-Then by destruction dwell in doubtfull ioy.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-How now, my Lord, why doe you keepe alone?
-Of sorryest Fancies your Companions making,
-Vsing those Thoughts, which should indeed haue dy'd
-With them they thinke on: things without all remedie
-Should be without regard: what's done, is done
-
-   Macb. We haue scorch'd the Snake, not kill'd it:
-Shee'le close, and be her selfe, whilest our poore Mallice
-Remaines in danger of her former Tooth.
-But let the frame of things dis-ioynt,
-Both the Worlds suffer,
-Ere we will eate our Meale in feare, and sleepe
-In the affliction of these terrible Dreames,
-That shake vs Nightly: Better be with the dead,
-Whom we, to gayne our peace, haue sent to peace,
-Then on the torture of the Minde to lye
-In restlesse extasie.
-Duncane is in his Graue:
-After Lifes fitfull Feuer, he sleepes well,
-Treason ha's done his worst: nor Steele, nor Poyson,
-Mallice domestique, forraine Leuie, nothing,
-Can touch him further
-
-   Lady. Come on:
-Gentle my Lord, sleeke o're your rugged Lookes,
-Be bright and Iouiall among your Guests to Night
-
-   Macb. So shall I Loue, and so I pray be you:
-Let your remembrance apply to Banquo,
-Present him Eminence, both with Eye and Tongue:
-Vnsafe the while, that wee must laue
-Our Honors in these flattering streames,
-And make our Faces Vizards to our Hearts,
-Disguising what they are
-
-   Lady. You must leaue this
-
-   Macb. O, full of Scorpions is my Minde, deare Wife:
-Thou know'st, that Banquo and his Fleans liues
-
-   Lady. But in them, Natures Coppie's not eterne
-
-   Macb. There's comfort yet, they are assaileable,
-Then be thou iocund: ere the Bat hath flowne
-His Cloyster'd flight, ere to black Heccats summons
-The shard-borne Beetle, with his drowsie hums,
-Hath rung Nights yawning Peale,
-There shall be done a deed of dreadfull note
-
-   Lady. What's to be done?
-  Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck,
-Till thou applaud the deed: Come, seeling Night,
-Skarfe vp the tender Eye of pittifull Day,
-And with thy bloodie and inuisible Hand
-Cancell and teare to pieces that great Bond,
-Which keepes me pale. Light thickens,
-And the Crow makes Wing toth' Rookie Wood:
-Good things of Day begin to droope, and drowse,
-Whiles Nights black Agents to their Prey's doe rowse.
-Thou maruell'st at my words: but hold thee still,
-Things bad begun, make strong themselues by ill:
-So prythee goe with me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter three Murtherers.
-
-  1. But who did bid thee ioyne with vs?
-  3. Macbeth
-
-   2. He needes not our mistrust, since he deliuers
-Our Offices, and what we haue to doe,
-To the direction iust
-
-   1. Then stand with vs:
-The West yet glimmers with some streakes of Day.
-Now spurres the lated Traueller apace,
-To gayne the timely Inne, and neere approches
-The subiect of our Watch
-
-   3. Hearke, I heare Horses
-
-   Banquo within. Giue vs a Light there, hoa
-
-   2. Then 'tis hee:
-The rest, that are within the note of expectation,
-Alreadie are i'th' Court
-
-   1. His Horses goe about
-
-   3. Almost a mile: but he does vsually,
-So all men doe, from hence toth' Pallace Gate
-Make it their Walke.
-Enter Banquo and Fleans, with a Torch.
-
-  2. A Light, a Light
-
-   3. 'Tis hee
-
-   1. Stand too't
-
-   Ban. It will be Rayne to Night
-
-   1. Let it come downe
-
-   Ban. O, Trecherie!
-Flye good Fleans, flye, flye, flye,
-Thou may'st reuenge. O Slaue!
-  3. Who did strike out the Light?
-  1. Was't not the way?
-  3. There's but one downe: the Sonne is fled
-
-   2. We haue lost
-Best halfe of our Affaire
-
-   1. Well, let's away, and say how much is done.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Quarta.
-
-Banquet prepar'd. Enter Macbeth, Lady, Rosse, Lenox, Lords, and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. You know your owne degrees, sit downe:
-At first and last, the hearty welcome
-
-   Lords. Thankes to your Maiesty
-
-   Macb. Our selfe will mingle with Society,
-And play the humble Host:
-Our Hostesse keepes her State, but in best time
-We will require her welcome
-
-   La. Pronounce it for me Sir, to all our Friends,
-For my heart speakes, they are welcome.
-Enter first Murtherer.
-
-  Macb. See they encounter thee with their harts thanks
-Both sides are euen: heere Ile sit i'th' mid'st,
-Be large in mirth, anon wee'l drinke a Measure
-The Table round. There's blood vpon thy face
-
-   Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then
-
-   Macb. 'Tis better thee without, then he within.
-Is he dispatch'd?
-  Mur. My Lord his throat is cut, that I did for him
-
-   Mac. Thou art the best o'th' Cut-throats,
-Yet hee's good that did the like for Fleans:
-If thou did'st it, thou art the Non-pareill
-
-   Mur. Most Royall Sir
-Fleans is scap'd
-
-   Macb. Then comes my Fit againe:
-I had else beene perfect;
-Whole as the Marble, founded as the Rocke,
-As broad, and generall, as the casing Ayre:
-But now I am cabin'd, crib'd, confin'd, bound in
-To sawcy doubts, and feares. But Banquo's safe?
-  Mur. I, my good Lord: safe in a ditch he bides,
-With twenty trenched gashes on his head;
-The least a Death to Nature
-
-   Macb. Thankes for that:
-There the growne Serpent lyes, the worme that's fled
-Hath Nature that in time will Venom breed,
-No teeth for th' present. Get thee gone, to morrow
-Wee'l heare our selues againe.
-
-Exit Murderer.
-
-  Lady. My Royall Lord,
-You do not giue the Cheere, the Feast is sold
-That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making:
-'Tis giuen, with welcome: to feede were best at home:
-From thence, the sawce to meate is Ceremony,
-Meeting were bare without it.
-Enter the Ghost of Banquo, and sits in Macbeths place.
-
-  Macb. Sweet Remembrancer:
-Now good digestion waite on Appetite,
-And health on both
-
-   Lenox. May't please your Highnesse sit
-
-   Macb. Here had we now our Countries Honor, roof'd,
-Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present:
-Who, may I rather challenge for vnkindnesse,
-Then pitty for Mischance
-
-   Rosse. His absence (Sir)
-Layes blame vpon his promise. Pleas't your Highnesse
-To grace vs with your Royall Company?
-  Macb. The Table's full
-
-   Lenox. Heere is a place reseru'd Sir
-
-   Macb. Where?
-  Lenox. Heere my good Lord.
-What is't that moues your Highnesse?
-  Macb. Which of you haue done this?
-  Lords. What, my good Lord?
-  Macb. Thou canst not say I did it: neuer shake
-Thy goary lockes at me
-
-   Rosse. Gentlemen rise, his Highnesse is not well
-
-   Lady. Sit worthy Friends: my Lord is often thus,
-And hath beene from his youth. Pray you keepe Seat,
-The fit is momentary, vpon a thought
-He will againe be well. If much you note him
-You shall offend him, and extend his Passion,
-Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man?
-  Macb. I, and a bold one, that dare looke on that
-Which might appall the Diuell
-
-   La. O proper stuffe:
-This is the very painting of your feare:
-This is the Ayre-drawne-Dagger which you said
-Led you to Duncan. O, these flawes and starts
-(Impostors to true feare) would well become
-A womans story, at a Winters fire
-Authoriz'd by her Grandam: shame it selfe,
-Why do you make such faces? When all's done
-You looke but on a stoole
-
-   Macb. Prythee see there:
-Behold, looke, loe, how say you:
-Why what care I, if thou canst nod, speake too.
-If Charnell houses, and our Graues must send
-Those that we bury, backe; our Monuments
-Shall be the Mawes of Kytes
-
-   La. What? quite vnmann'd in folly
-
-   Macb. If I stand heere, I saw him
-
-   La. Fie for shame
-
-   Macb. Blood hath bene shed ere now, i'th' olden time
-Ere humane Statute purg'd the gentle Weale:
-I, and since too, Murthers haue bene perform'd
-Too terrible for the eare. The times has bene,
-That when the Braines were out, the man would dye,
-And there an end: But now they rise againe
-With twenty mortall murthers on their crownes,
-And push vs from our stooles. This is more strange
-Then such a murther is
-
-   La. My worthy Lord
-Your Noble Friends do lacke you
-
-   Macb. I do forget:
-Do not muse at me my most worthy Friends,
-I haue a strange infirmity, which is nothing
-To those that know me. Come, loue and health to all,
-Then Ile sit downe: Giue me some Wine, fill full:
-Enter Ghost.
-
-I drinke to th' generall ioy o'th' whole Table,
-And to our deere Friend Banquo, whom we misse:
-Would he were heere: to all, and him we thirst,
-And all to all
-
-   Lords. Our duties, and the pledge
-
-   Mac. Auant, & quit my sight, let the earth hide thee:
-Thy bones are marrowlesse, thy blood is cold:
-Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
-Which thou dost glare with
-
-   La. Thinke of this good Peeres
-But as a thing of Custome: 'Tis no other,
-Onely it spoyles the pleasure of the time
-
-   Macb. What man dare, I dare:
-Approach thou like the rugged Russian Beare,
-The arm'd Rhinoceros, or th' Hircan Tiger,
-Take any shape but that, and my firme Nerues
-Shall neuer tremble. Or be aliue againe,
-And dare me to the Desart with thy Sword:
-If trembling I inhabit then, protest mee
-The Baby of a Girle. Hence horrible shadow,
-Vnreall mock'ry hence. Why so, being gone
-I am a man againe: pray you sit still
-
-   La. You haue displac'd the mirth,
-Broke the good meeting, with most admir'd disorder
-
-   Macb. Can such things be,
-And ouercome vs like a Summers Clowd,
-Without our speciall wonder? You make me strange
-Euen to the disposition that I owe,
-When now I thinke you can behold such sights,
-And keepe the naturall Rubie of your Cheekes,
-When mine is blanch'd with feare
-
-   Rosse. What sights, my Lord?
-  La. I pray you speake not: he growes worse & worse
-Question enrages him: at once, goodnight.
-Stand not vpon the order of your going,
-But go at once
-
-   Len. Good night, and better health
-Attend his Maiesty
-
-   La. A kinde goodnight to all.
-
-Exit Lords.
-
-  Macb. It will haue blood they say:
-Blood will haue Blood:
-Stones haue beene knowne to moue, & Trees to speake:
-Augures, and vnderstood Relations, haue
-By Maggot Pyes, & Choughes, & Rookes brought forth
-The secret'st man of Blood. What is the night?
-  La. Almost at oddes with morning, which is which
-
-   Macb. How say'st thou that Macduff denies his person
-At our great bidding
-
-   La. Did you send to him Sir?
-  Macb. I heare it by the way: But I will send:
-There's not a one of them but in his house
-I keepe a Seruant Feed. I will to morrow
-(And betimes I will) to the weyard Sisters.
-More shall they speake: for now I am bent to know
-By the worst meanes, the worst, for mine owne good,
-All causes shall giue way. I am in blood
-Stept in so farre, that should I wade no more,
-Returning were as tedious as go ore:
-Strange things I haue in head, that will to hand,
-Which must be acted, ere they may be scand
-
-   La. You lacke the season of all Natures, sleepe
-
-   Macb. Come, wee'l to sleepe: My strange & self-abuse
-Is the initiate feare, that wants hard vse:
-We are yet but yong indeed.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecat.
-
-  1. Why how now Hecat, you looke angerly?
-  Hec. Haue I not reason (Beldams) as you are?
-Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare
-To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,
-In Riddles, and Affaires of death;
-And I the Mistris of your Charmes,
-The close contriuer of all harmes,
-Was neuer call'd to beare my part,
-Or shew the glory of our Art?
-And which is worse, all you haue done
-Hath bene but for a wayward Sonne,
-Spightfull, and wrathfull, who (as others do)
-Loues for his owne ends, not for you.
-But make amends now: Get you gon,
-And at the pit of Acheron
-Meete me i'th' Morning: thither he
-Will come, to know his Destinie.
-Your Vessels, and your Spels prouide,
-Your Charmes, and euery thing beside;
-I am for th' Ayre: This night Ile spend
-Vnto a dismall, and a Fatall end.
-Great businesse must be wrought ere Noone.
-Vpon the Corner of the Moone
-There hangs a vap'rous drop, profound,
-Ile catch it ere it come to ground;
-And that distill'd by Magicke slights,
-Shall raise such Artificiall Sprights,
-As by the strength of their illusion,
-Shall draw him on to his Confusion.
-He shall spurne Fate, scorne Death, and beare
-His hopes 'boue Wisedome, Grace, and Feare:
-And you all know, Security
-Is Mortals cheefest Enemie.
-
-Musicke, and a Song.
-
-Hearke, I am call'd: my little Spirit see
-Sits in Foggy cloud, and stayes for me.
-
-Sing within. Come away, come away, &c.
-
-  1 Come, let's make hast, shee'l soone be
-Backe againe.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Sexta.
-
-Enter Lenox, and another Lord.
-
-  Lenox. My former Speeches,
-Haue but hit your Thoughts
-Which can interpret farther: Onely I say
-Things haue bin strangely borne. The gracious Duncan
-Was pittied of Macbeth: marry he was dead:
-And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,
-Whom you may say (if't please you) Fleans kill'd,
-For Fleans fled: Men must not walke too late.
-Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous
-It was for Malcolme, and for Donalbane
-To kill their gracious Father? Damned Fact,
-How it did greeue Macbeth? Did he not straight
-In pious rage, the two delinquents teare,
-That were the Slaues of drinke, and thralles of sleepe?
-Was not that Nobly done? I, and wisely too:
-For 'twould haue anger'd any heart aliue
-To heare the men deny't. So that I say,
-He ha's borne all things well, and I do thinke,
-That had he Duncans Sonnes vnder his Key,
-(As, and't please Heauen he shall not) they should finde
-What 'twere to kill a Father: So should Fleans.
-But peace; for from broad words, and cause he fayl'd
-His presence at the Tyrants Feast, I heare
-Macduffe liues in disgrace. Sir, can you tell
-Where he bestowes himselfe?
-  Lord. The Sonnes of Duncane
-(From whom this Tyrant holds the due of Birth)
-Liues in the English Court, and is receyu'd
-Of the most Pious Edward, with such grace,
-That the maleuolence of Fortune, nothing
-Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduffe
-Is gone, to pray the Holy King, vpon his ayd
-To wake Northumberland, and warlike Seyward,
-That by the helpe of these (with him aboue)
-To ratifie the Worke) we may againe
-Giue to our Tables meate, sleepe to our Nights:
-Free from our Feasts, and Banquets bloody kniues;
-Do faithfull Homage, and receiue free Honors,
-All which we pine for now. And this report
-Hath so exasperate their King, that hee
-Prepares for some attempt of Warre
-
-   Len. Sent he to Macduffe?
-  Lord. He did: and with an absolute Sir, not I
-The clowdy Messenger turnes me his backe,
-And hums; as who should say, you'l rue the time
-That clogges me with this Answer
-
-   Lenox. And that well might
-Aduise him to a Caution, t' hold what distance
-His wisedome can prouide. Some holy Angell
-Flye to the Court of England, and vnfold
-His Message ere he come, that a swift blessing
-May soone returne to this our suffering Country,
-Vnder a hand accurs'd
-
-   Lord. Ile send my Prayers with him.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1 Thrice the brinded Cat hath mew'd
-
-   2 Thrice, and once the Hedge-Pigge whin'd
-
-   3 Harpier cries, 'tis time, 'tis time
-
-   1 Round about the Caldron go:
-In the poysond Entrailes throw
-Toad, that vnder cold stone,
-Dayes and Nights, ha's thirty one:
-Sweltred Venom sleeping got,
-Boyle thou first i'th' charmed pot
-
-   All. Double, double, toile and trouble;
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Fillet of a Fenny Snake,
-In the Cauldron boyle and bake:
-Eye of Newt, and Toe of Frogge,
-Wooll of Bat, and Tongue of Dogge:
-Adders Forke, and Blinde-wormes Sting,
-Lizards legge, and Howlets wing:
-For a Charme of powrefull trouble,
-Like a Hell-broth, boyle and bubble
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   3 Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolfe,
-Witches Mummey, Maw, and Gulfe
-Of the rauin'd salt Sea sharke:
-Roote of Hemlocke, digg'd i'th' darke:
-Liuer of Blaspheming Iew,
-Gall of Goate, and Slippes of Yew,
-Sliuer'd in the Moones Ecclipse:
-Nose of Turke, and Tartars lips:
-Finger of Birth-strangled Babe,
-Ditch-deliuer'd by a Drab,
-Make the Grewell thicke, and slab.
-Adde thereto a Tigers Chawdron,
-For th' Ingredience of our Cawdron
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Coole it with a Baboones blood,
-Then the Charme is firme and good.
-Enter Hecat, and the other three Witches.
-
-  Hec. O well done: I commend your paines,
-And euery one shall share i'th' gaines:
-And now about the Cauldron sing
-Like Elues and Fairies in a Ring,
-Inchanting all that you put in.
-
-Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.
-
-  2 By the pricking of my Thumbes,
-Something wicked this way comes:
-Open Lockes, who euer knockes.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. How now you secret, black, & midnight Hags?
-What is't you do?
-  All. A deed without a name
-
-   Macb. I coniure you, by that which you Professe,
-(How ere you come to know it) answer me:
-Though you vntye the Windes, and let them fight
-Against the Churches: Though the yesty Waues
-Confound and swallow Nauigation vp:
-Though bladed Corne be lodg'd, & Trees blown downe,
-Though Castles topple on their Warders heads:
-Though Pallaces, and Pyramids do slope
-Their heads to their Foundations: Though the treasure
-Of Natures Germaine, tumble altogether,
-Euen till destruction sicken: Answer me
-To what I aske you
-
-   1 Speake
-
-   2 Demand
-
-   3 Wee'l answer
-
-   1 Say, if th'hadst rather heare it from our mouthes,
-Or from our Masters
-
-   Macb. Call 'em: let me see 'em
-
-   1 Powre in Sowes blood, that hath eaten
-Her nine Farrow: Greaze that's sweaten
-From the Murderers Gibbet, throw
-Into the Flame
-
-   All. Come high or low:
-Thy Selfe and Office deaftly show.
-Thunder. 1. Apparation, an Armed Head.
-
-  Macb. Tell me, thou vnknowne power
-
-   1 He knowes thy thought:
-Heare his speech, but say thou nought
-
-   1 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth:
-Beware Macduffe,
-Beware the Thane of Fife: dismisse me. Enough.
-
-He Descends.
-
-  Macb. What ere thou art, for thy good caution, thanks
-Thou hast harp'd my feare aright. But one word more
-
-   1 He will not be commanded: heere's another
-More potent then the first.
-
-Thunder. 2 Apparition, a Bloody Childe.
-
-  2 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth
-
-   Macb. Had I three eares, Il'd heare thee
-
-   Appar. Be bloody, bold, & resolute:
-Laugh to scorne
-The powre of man: For none of woman borne
-Shall harme Macbeth.
-
-Descends.
-
-  Mac. Then liue Macduffe: what need I feare of thee?
-But yet Ile make assurance: double sure,
-And take a Bond of Fate: thou shalt not liue,
-That I may tell pale-hearted Feare, it lies;
-And sleepe in spight of Thunder.
-
-Thunder 3 Apparation, a Childe Crowned, with a Tree in his hand.
-
-What is this, that rises like the issue of a King,
-And weares vpon his Baby-brow, the round
-And top of Soueraignty?
-  All. Listen, but speake not too't
-
-   3 Appar. Be Lyon metled, proud, and take no care:
-Who chafes, who frets, or where Conspirers are:
-Macbeth shall neuer vanquish'd be, vntill
-Great Byrnam Wood, to high Dunsmane Hill
-Shall come against him.
-
-Descend.
-
-  Macb. That will neuer bee:
-Who can impresse the Forrest, bid the Tree
-Vnfixe his earth-bound Root? Sweet boadments, good:
-Rebellious dead, rise neuer till the Wood
-Of Byrnan rise, and our high plac'd Macbeth
-Shall liue the Lease of Nature, pay his breath
-To time, and mortall Custome. Yet my Hart
-Throbs to know one thing: Tell me, if your Art
-Can tell so much: Shall Banquo's issue euer
-Reigne in this Kingdome?
-  All. Seeke to know no more
-
-   Macb. I will be satisfied. Deny me this,
-And an eternall Curse fall on you: Let me know.
-Why sinkes that Caldron? & what noise is this?
-
-Hoboyes
-
-  1 Shew
-
-   2 Shew
-
-   3 Shew
-
-   All. Shew his Eyes, and greeue his Hart,
-Come like shadowes, so depart.
-
-A shew of eight Kings, and Banquo last, with a glasse in his hand.
-
-  Macb. Thou art too like the Spirit of Banquo: Down:
-Thy Crowne do's seare mine Eye-bals. And thy haire
-Thou other Gold-bound-brow, is like the first:
-A third, is like the former. Filthy Hagges,
-Why do you shew me this? - A fourth? Start eyes!
-What will the Line stretch out to'th' cracke of Doome?
-Another yet? A seauenth? Ile see no more:
-And yet the eighth appeares, who beares a glasse,
-Which shewes me many more: and some I see,
-That two-fold Balles, and trebble Scepters carry.
-Horrible sight: Now I see 'tis true,
-For the Blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles vpon me,
-And points at them for his. What? is this so?
-  1 I Sir, all this is so. But why
-Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
-Come Sisters, cheere we vp his sprights,
-And shew the best of our delights.
-Ile Charme the Ayre to giue a sound,
-While you performe your Antique round:
-That this great King may kindly say,
-Our duties, did his welcome pay.
-
-Musicke. The Witches Dance, and vanish.
-
-  Macb. Where are they? Gone?
-Let this pernitious houre,
-Stand aye accursed in the Kalender.
-Come in, without there.
-Enter Lenox.
-
-  Lenox. What's your Graces will
-
-   Macb. Saw you the Weyard Sisters?
-  Lenox. No my Lord
-
-   Macb. Came they not by you?
-  Lenox. No indeed my Lord
-
-   Macb. Infected be the Ayre whereon they ride,
-And damn'd all those that trust them. I did heare
-The gallopping of Horse. Who was't came by?
-  Len. 'Tis two or three my Lord, that bring you word:
-Macduff is fled to England
-
-   Macb. Fled to England?
-  Len. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
-The flighty purpose neuer is o're-tooke
-Vnlesse the deed go with it. From this moment,
-The very firstlings of my heart shall be
-The firstlings of my hand. And euen now
-To Crown my thoughts with Acts: be it thoght & done:
-The Castle of Macduff, I will surprize.
-Seize vpon Fife; giue to th' edge o'th' Sword
-His Wife, his Babes, and all vnfortunate Soules
-That trace him in his Line. No boasting like a Foole,
-This deed Ile do, before this purpose coole,
-But no more sights. Where are these Gentlemen?
-Come bring me where they are.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macduffes Wife, her Son, and Rosse.
-
-  Wife. What had he done, to make him fly the Land?
-  Rosse. You must haue patience Madam
-
-   Wife. He had none:
-His flight was madnesse: when our Actions do not,
-Our feares do make vs Traitors
-
-   Rosse. You know not
-Whether it was his wisedome, or his feare
-
-   Wife. Wisedom? to leaue his wife, to leaue his Babes,
-His Mansion, and his Titles, in a place
-From whence himselfe do's flye? He loues vs not,
-He wants the naturall touch. For the poore Wren
-(The most diminitiue of Birds) will fight,
-Her yong ones in h

<TRUNCATED>

[13/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/urls.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/urls.txt b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/urls.txt
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+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,11 +0,0 @@
-www.A.com	www.B.com
-www.A.com	www.C.com
-www.A.com	www.D.com
-www.A.com	www.E.com
-www.B.com	www.D.com
-www.B.com	www.E.com
-www.C.com	www.D.com
-www.D.com	www.B.com
-www.E.com	www.A.com
-www.F.com	www.B.com
-www.F.com	www.C.com

[17/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/docs.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/docs.txt b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/docs.txt
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index 90a3f65..0000000
--- a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/docs.txt
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,6 +0,0 @@
-A	this doc has this text
-A	and this text as well
-A	but also this
-B	this doc has some text
-B	but not as much as the last
-B	doc

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/letters.txt
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diff --git a/crunch-core/src/it/resources/letters.txt b/crunch-core/src/it/resources/letters.txt
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@@ -1,2 +0,0 @@
-a
-bb
\ No newline at end of file

[18/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/fce2b23b/crunch-contrib/src/it/resources/shakes.txt
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-***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
-********************The Tragedie of Macbeth*********************
-
-This is our 3rd edition of most of these plays.  See the index.
-
-
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-The Tragedie of Macbeth
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-by William Shakespeare
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-July, 2000  [Etext #2264]
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-
-
-Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-
-
-
-
-Executive Director's Notes:
-
-In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think all
-the spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time have
-been corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as they
-are presented herein:
-
-  Barnardo. Who's there?
-  Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold
-your selfe
-
-   Bar. Long liue the King
-
-***
-
-As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words
-or letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . .this is the
-original meaning of the term cliche. . .and thus, being unwilling
-to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions
-that look very odd. . .such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,
-above. . .and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming
-Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . .
-
-The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a
-time when they were out of "v"'s. . .possibly having used "vv" in
-place of some "w"'s, etc.  This was a common practice of the day,
-as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend
-more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
-
-You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I
-have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an
-extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a
-very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare.  My father read an
-assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University
-in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the
-purpose.  To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available
-. . .in great detail. . .and determined from the various changes,
-that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a
-variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous
-for signing his name with several different spellings.
-
-So, please take this into account when reading the comments below
-made by our volunteer who prepared this file:  you may see errors
-that are "not" errors. . . .
-
-So. . .with this caveat. . .we have NOT changed the canon errors,
-here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie 
-of Macbeth.
-
-Michael S. Hart
-Project Gutenberg
-Executive Director
-
-
-***
-
-
-Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't.  This was taken from
-a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can
-come in ASCII to the printed text.
-
-The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the
-conjoined ae have been changed to ae.  I have left the spelling,
-punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the
-printed text.  I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put
-together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the
-Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified
-spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded
-abbreviations as I have come across them.  Everything within
-brackets [] is what I have added.  So if you don't like that
-you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a
-purer Shakespeare.
-
-Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual
-differences between various copies of the first folio.  So there may
-be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between
-this and other first folio editions.  This is due to the printer's
-habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and
-then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then
-continuing the printing run.  The proof run wasn't thrown away but
-incorporated into the printed copies.  This is just the way it is.
-The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different
-First Folio editions' best pages.
-
-If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuation
-errors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feel
-free to email me those errors.  I wish to make this the best
-etext possible.  My email address for right now are haradda@aol.com
-and davidr@inconnect.com.  I hope that you enjoy this.
-
-David Reed
-
-The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
-
-Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.
-
-  1. When shall we three meet againe?
-In Thunder, Lightning, or in Raine?
-  2. When the Hurley-burley's done,
-When the Battaile's lost, and wonne
-
-   3. That will be ere the set of Sunne
-
-   1. Where the place?
-  2. Vpon the Heath
-
-   3. There to meet with Macbeth
-
-   1. I come, Gray-Malkin
-
-   All. Padock calls anon: faire is foule, and foule is faire,
-Houer through the fogge and filthie ayre.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Alarum within. Enter King Malcome, Donalbaine, Lenox, with
-attendants,
-meeting a bleeding Captaine.
-
-  King. What bloody man is that? he can report,
-As seemeth by his plight, of the Reuolt
-The newest state
-
-   Mal. This is the Serieant,
-Who like a good and hardie Souldier fought
-'Gainst my Captiuitie: Haile braue friend;
-Say to the King, the knowledge of the Broyle,
-As thou didst leaue it
-
-   Cap. Doubtfull it stood,
-As two spent Swimmers, that doe cling together,
-And choake their Art: The mercilesse Macdonwald
-(Worthie to be a Rebell, for to that
-The multiplying Villanies of Nature
-Doe swarme vpon him) from the Westerne Isles
-Of Kernes and Gallowgrosses is supply'd,
-And Fortune on his damned Quarry smiling,
-Shew'd like a Rebells Whore: but all's too weake:
-For braue Macbeth (well hee deserues that Name)
-Disdayning Fortune, with his brandisht Steele,
-Which smoak'd with bloody execution
-(Like Valours Minion) caru'd out his passage,
-Till hee fac'd the Slaue:
-Which neu'r shooke hands, nor bad farwell to him,
-Till he vnseam'd him from the Naue toth' Chops,
-And fix'd his Head vpon our Battlements
-
-   King. O valiant Cousin, worthy Gentleman
-
-   Cap. As whence the Sunne 'gins his reflection,
-Shipwracking Stormes, and direfull Thunders:
-So from that Spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,
-Discomfort swells: Marke King of Scotland, marke,
-No sooner Iustice had, with Valour arm'd,
-Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their heeles,
-But the Norweyan Lord, surueying vantage,
-With furbusht Armes, and new supplyes of men,
-Began a fresh assault
-
-   King. Dismay'd not this our Captaines, Macbeth and
-Banquoh?
-  Cap. Yes, as Sparrowes, Eagles;
-Or the Hare, the Lyon:
-If I say sooth, I must report they were
-As Cannons ouer-charg'd with double Cracks,
-So they doubly redoubled stroakes vpon the Foe:
-Except they meant to bathe in reeking Wounds,
-Or memorize another Golgotha,
-I cannot tell: but I am faint,
-My Gashes cry for helpe
-
-   King. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds,
-They smack of Honor both: Goe get him Surgeons.
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-Who comes here?
-  Mal. The worthy Thane of Rosse
-
-   Lenox. What a haste lookes through his eyes?
-So should he looke, that seemes to speake things strange
-
-   Rosse. God saue the King
-
-   King. Whence cam'st thou, worthy Thane?
-  Rosse. From Fiffe, great King,
-Where the Norweyan Banners flowt the Skie,
-And fanne our people cold.
-Norway himselfe, with terrible numbers,
-Assisted by that most disloyall Traytor,
-The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismall Conflict,
-Till that Bellona's Bridegroome, lapt in proofe,
-Confronted him with selfe-comparisons,
-Point against Point, rebellious Arme 'gainst Arme,
-Curbing his lauish spirit: and to conclude,
-The Victorie fell on vs
-
-   King. Great happinesse
-
-   Rosse. That now Sweno, the Norwayes King,
-Craues composition:
-Nor would we deigne him buriall of his men,
-Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes ynch,
-Ten thousand Dollars, to our generall vse
-
-   King. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceiue
-Our Bosome interest: Goe pronounce his present death,
-And with his former Title greet Macbeth
-
-   Rosse. Ile see it done
-
-   King. What he hath lost, Noble Macbeth hath wonne.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1. Where hast thou beene, Sister?
-  2. Killing Swine
-
-   3. Sister, where thou?
-  1. A Saylors Wife had Chestnuts in her Lappe,
-And mouncht, & mouncht, and mouncht:
-Giue me, quoth I.
-Aroynt thee, Witch, the rumpe-fed Ronyon cryes.
-Her Husband's to Aleppo gone, Master o'th' Tiger:
-But in a Syue Ile thither sayle,
-And like a Rat without a tayle,
-Ile doe, Ile doe, and Ile doe
-
-   2. Ile giue thee a Winde
-
-   1. Th'art kinde
-
-   3. And I another
-
-   1. I my selfe haue all the other,
-And the very Ports they blow,
-All the Quarters that they know,
-I'th' Ship-mans Card.
-Ile dreyne him drie as Hay:
-Sleepe shall neyther Night nor Day
-Hang vpon his Pent-house Lid:
-He shall liue a man forbid:
-Wearie Seu'nights, nine times nine,
-Shall he dwindle, peake, and pine:
-Though his Barke cannot be lost,
-Yet it shall be Tempest-tost.
-Looke what I haue
-
-   2. Shew me, shew me
-
-   1. Here I haue a Pilots Thumbe,
-Wrackt, as homeward he did come.
-
-Drum within.
-
-  3. A Drumme, a Drumme:
-Macbeth doth come
-
-   All. The weyward Sisters, hand in hand,
-Posters of the Sea and Land,
-Thus doe goe, about, about,
-Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
-And thrice againe, to make vp nine.
-Peace, the Charme's wound vp.
-Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
-
-  Macb. So foule and faire a day I haue not seene
-
-   Banquo. How farre is't call'd to Soris? What are these,
-So wither'd, and so wilde in their attyre,
-That looke not like th' Inhabitants o'th' Earth,
-And yet are on't? Liue you, or are you aught
-That man may question? you seeme to vnderstand me,
-By each at once her choppie finger laying
-Vpon her skinnie Lips: you should be Women,
-And yet your Beards forbid me to interprete
-That you are so
-
-   Mac. Speake if you can: what are you?
-  1. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Glamis
-
-   2. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Cawdor
-
-   3. All haile Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter
-
-   Banq. Good Sir, why doe you start, and seeme to feare
-Things that doe sound so faire? i'th' name of truth
-Are ye fantasticall, or that indeed
-Which outwardly ye shew? My Noble Partner
-You greet with present Grace, and great prediction
-Of Noble hauing, and of Royall hope,
-That he seemes wrapt withall: to me you speake not.
-If you can looke into the Seedes of Time,
-And say, which Graine will grow, and which will not,
-Speake then to me, who neyther begge, nor feare
-Your fauors, nor your hate
-
-   1. Hayle
-
-   2. Hayle
-
-   3. Hayle
-
-   1. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater
-
-   2. Not so happy, yet much happyer
-
-   3. Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none:
-So all haile Macbeth, and Banquo
-
-   1. Banquo, and Macbeth, all haile
-
-   Macb. Stay you imperfect Speakers, tell me more:
-By Sinells death, I know I am Thane of Glamis,
-But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor liues
-A prosperous Gentleman: And to be King,
-Stands not within the prospect of beleefe,
-No more then to be Cawdor. Say from whence
-You owe this strange Intelligence, or why
-Vpon this blasted Heath you stop our way
-With such Prophetique greeting?
-Speake, I charge you.
-
-Witches vanish.
-
-  Banq. The Earth hath bubbles, as the Water ha's,
-And these are of them: whither are they vanish'd?
-  Macb. Into the Ayre: and what seem'd corporall,
-Melted, as breath into the Winde.
-Would they had stay'd
-
-   Banq. Were such things here, as we doe speake about?
-Or haue we eaten on the insane Root,
-That takes the Reason Prisoner?
-  Macb. Your Children shall be Kings
-
-   Banq. You shall be King
-
-   Macb. And Thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?
-  Banq. Toth' selfe-same tune and words: who's here?
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-  Rosse. The King hath happily receiu'd, Macbeth,
-The newes of thy successe: and when he reades
-Thy personall Venture in the Rebels sight,
-His Wonders and his Prayses doe contend,
-Which should be thine, or his: silenc'd with that,
-In viewing o're the rest o'th' selfe-same day,
-He findes thee in the stout Norweyan Rankes,
-Nothing afeard of what thy selfe didst make
-Strange Images of death, as thick as Tale
-Can post with post, and euery one did beare
-Thy prayses in his Kingdomes great defence,
-And powr'd them downe before him
-
-   Ang. Wee are sent,
-To giue thee from our Royall Master thanks,
-Onely to harrold thee into his sight,
-Not pay thee
-
-   Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater Honor,
-He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:
-In which addition, haile most worthy Thane,
-For it is thine
-
-   Banq. What, can the Deuill speake true?
-  Macb. The Thane of Cawdor liues:
-Why doe you dresse me in borrowed Robes?
-  Ang. Who was the Thane, liues yet,
-But vnder heauie Iudgement beares that Life,
-Which he deserues to loose.
-Whether he was combin'd with those of Norway,
-Or did lyne the Rebell with hidden helpe,
-And vantage; or that with both he labour'd
-In his Countreyes wracke, I know not:
-But Treasons Capitall, confess'd, and prou'd,
-Haue ouerthrowne him
-
-   Macb. Glamys, and Thane of Cawdor:
-The greatest is behinde. Thankes for your paines.
-Doe you not hope your Children shall be Kings,
-When those that gaue the Thane of Cawdor to me,
-Promis'd no lesse to them
-
-   Banq. That trusted home,
-Might yet enkindle you vnto the Crowne,
-Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:
-And oftentimes, to winne vs to our harme,
-The Instruments of Darknesse tell vs Truths,
-Winne vs with honest Trifles, to betray's
-In deepest consequence.
-Cousins, a word, I pray you
-
-   Macb. Two Truths are told,
-As happy Prologues to the swelling Act
-Of the Imperiall Theame. I thanke you Gentlemen:
-This supernaturall solliciting
-Cannot be ill; cannot be good.
-If ill? why hath it giuen me earnest of successe,
-Commencing in a Truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
-If good? why doe I yeeld to that suggestion,
-Whose horrid Image doth vnfixe my Heire,
-And make my seated Heart knock at my Ribbes,
-Against the vse of Nature? Present Feares
-Are lesse then horrible Imaginings:
-My Thought, whose Murther yet is but fantasticall,
-Shakes so my single state of Man,
-That Function is smother'd in surmise,
-And nothing is, but what is not
-
-   Banq. Looke how our Partner's rapt
-
-   Macb. If Chance will haue me King,
-Why Chance may Crowne me,
-Without my stirre
-
-   Banq. New Honors come vpon him
-Like our strange Garments, cleaue not to their mould,
-But with the aid of vse
-
-   Macb. Come what come may,
-Time, and the Houre, runs through the roughest Day
-
-   Banq. Worthy Macbeth, wee stay vpon your leysure
-
-   Macb. Giue me your fauour:
-My dull Braine was wrought with things forgotten.
-Kinde Gentlemen, your paines are registred,
-Where euery day I turne the Leafe,
-To reade them.
-Let vs toward the King: thinke vpon
-What hath chanc'd: and at more time,
-The Interim hauing weigh'd it, let vs speake
-Our free Hearts each to other
-
-   Banq. Very gladly
-
-   Macb. Till then enough:
-Come friends.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Flourish. Enter King, Lenox, Malcolme, Donalbaine, and
-Attendants.
-
-  King. Is execution done on Cawdor?
-Or not those in Commission yet return'd?
-  Mal. My Liege, they are not yet come back.
-But I haue spoke with one that saw him die:
-Who did report, that very frankly hee
-Confess'd his Treasons, implor'd your Highnesse Pardon,
-And set forth a deepe Repentance:
-Nothing in his Life became him,
-Like the leauing it. Hee dy'de,
-As one that had beene studied in his death,
-To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,
-As 'twere a carelesse Trifle
-
-   King. There's no Art,
-To finde the Mindes construction in the Face.
-He was a Gentleman, on whom I built
-An absolute Trust.
-Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Rosse, and Angus.
-
-O worthyest Cousin,
-The sinne of my Ingratitude euen now
-Was heauie on me. Thou art so farre before,
-That swiftest Wing of Recompence is slow,
-To ouertake thee. Would thou hadst lesse deseru'd,
-That the proportion both of thanks, and payment,
-Might haue beene mine: onely I haue left to say,
-More is thy due, then more then all can pay
-
-   Macb. The seruice, and the loyaltie I owe,
-In doing it, payes it selfe.
-Your Highnesse part, is to receiue our Duties:
-And our Duties are to your Throne, and State,
-Children, and Seruants; which doe but what they should,
-By doing euery thing safe toward your Loue
-And Honor
-
-   King. Welcome hither:
-I haue begun to plant thee, and will labour
-To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
-That hast no lesse deseru'd, nor must be knowne
-No lesse to haue done so: Let me enfold thee,
-And hold thee to my Heart
-
-   Banq. There if I grow,
-The Haruest is your owne
-
-   King. My plenteous Ioyes,
-Wanton in fulnesse, seeke to hide themselues
-In drops of sorrow. Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,
-And you whose places are the nearest, know,
-We will establish our Estate vpon
-Our eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,
-The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor must
-Not vnaccompanied, inuest him onely,
-But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shine
-On all deseruers. From hence to Envernes,
-And binde vs further to you
-
-   Macb. The Rest is Labor, which is not vs'd for you:
-Ile be my selfe the Herbenger, and make ioyfull
-The hearing of my Wife, with your approach:
-So humbly take my leaue
-
-   King. My worthy Cawdor
-
-   Macb. The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step,
-On which I must fall downe, or else o're-leape,
-For in my way it lyes. Starres hide your fires,
-Let not Light see my black and deepe desires:
-The Eye winke at the Hand: yet let that bee,
-Which the Eye feares, when it is done to see.
-Enter.
-
-  King. True worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,
-And in his commendations, I am fed:
-It is a Banquet to me. Let's after him,
-Whose care is gone before, to bid vs welcome:
-It is a peerelesse Kinsman.
-
-Flourish. Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Enter Macbeths Wife alone with a Letter.
-
-  Lady. They met me in the day of successe: and I haue
-learn'd by the perfect'st report, they haue more in them, then
-mortall knowledge. When I burnt in desire to question them
-further, they made themselues Ayre, into which they vanish'd.
-Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missiues from
-the King, who all-hail'd me Thane of Cawdor, by which Title
-before, these weyward Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me to
-the comming on of time, with haile King that shalt be. This
-haue I thought good to deliuer thee (my dearest Partner of
-Greatnesse) that thou might'st not loose the dues of reioycing
-by being ignorant of what Greatnesse is promis'd thee. Lay
-it to thy heart and farewell.
-Glamys thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
-What thou art promis'd: yet doe I feare thy Nature,
-It is too full o'th' Milke of humane kindnesse,
-To catch the neerest way. Thou would'st be great,
-Art not without Ambition, but without
-The illnesse should attend it. What thou would'st highly,
-That would'st thou holily: would'st not play false,
-And yet would'st wrongly winne.
-Thould'st haue, great Glamys, that which cryes,
-Thus thou must doe, if thou haue it;
-And that which rather thou do'st feare to doe,
-Then wishest should be vndone. High thee hither,
-That I may powre my Spirits in thine Eare,
-And chastise with the valour of my Tongue
-All that impeides thee from the Golden Round,
-Which Fate and Metaphysicall ayde doth seeme
-To haue thee crown'd withall.
-Enter Messenger.
-
-What is your tidings?
-  Mess. The King comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it.
-Is not thy Master with him? who, wer't so,
-Would haue inform'd for preparation
-
-   Mess. So please you, it is true: our Thane is comming:
-One of my fellowes had the speed of him;
-Who almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
-Then would make vp his Message
-
-   Lady. Giue him tending,
-He brings great newes,
-
-Exit Messenger.
-
-The Rauen himselfe is hoarse,
-That croakes the fatall entrance of Duncan
-Vnder my Battlements. Come you Spirits,
-That tend on mortall thoughts, vnsex me here,
-And fill me from the Crowne to the Toe, top-full
-Of direst Crueltie: make thick my blood,
-Stop vp th' accesse, and passage to Remorse,
-That no compunctious visitings of Nature
-Shake my fell purpose, nor keepe peace betweene
-Th' effect, and hit. Come to my Womans Brests,
-And take my Milke for Gall, you murth'ring Ministers,
-Where-euer, in your sightlesse substances,
-You wait on Natures Mischiefe. Come thick Night,
-And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell,
-
-That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes,
-Nor Heauen peepe through the Blanket of the darke,
-To cry, hold, hold.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-Great Glamys, worthy Cawdor,
-Greater then both, by the all-haile hereafter,
-Thy Letters haue transported me beyond
-This ignorant present, and I feele now
-The future in the instant
-
-   Macb. My dearest Loue,
-Duncan comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. And when goes hence?
-  Macb. To morrow, as he purposes
-
-   Lady. O neuer,
-Shall Sunne that Morrow see.
-Your Face, my Thane, is as a Booke, where men
-May reade strange matters, to beguile the time.
-Looke like the time, beare welcome in your Eye,
-Your Hand, your Tongue: looke like th' innocent flower,
-But be the Serpent vnder't. He that's comming,
-Must be prouided for: and you shall put
-This Nights great Businesse into my dispatch,
-Which shall to all our Nights, and Dayes to come,
-Giue solely soueraigne sway, and Masterdome
-
-   Macb. We will speake further,
-  Lady. Onely looke vp cleare:
-To alter fauor, euer is to feare:
-Leaue all the rest to me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Sexta.
-
-Hoboyes, and Torches. Enter King, Malcolme, Donalbaine,
-Banquo, Lenox,
-Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and Attendants.
-
-  King. This Castle hath a pleasant seat,
-The ayre nimbly and sweetly recommends it selfe
-Vnto our gentle sences
-
-   Banq. This Guest of Summer,
-The Temple-haunting Barlet does approue,
-By his loued Mansonry, that the Heauens breath
-Smells wooingly here: no Iutty frieze,
-Buttrice, nor Coigne of Vantage, but this Bird
-Hath made his pendant Bed, and procreant Cradle,
-Where they must breed, and haunt: I haue obseru'd
-The ayre is delicate.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  King. See, see our honor'd Hostesse:
-The Loue that followes vs, sometime is our trouble,
-Which still we thanke as Loue. Herein I teach you,
-How you shall bid God-eyld vs for your paines,
-And thanke vs for your trouble
-
-   Lady. All our seruice,
-In euery point twice done, and then done double,
-Were poore, and single Businesse, to contend
-Against those Honors deepe, and broad,
-Wherewith your Maiestie loades our House:
-For those of old, and the late Dignities,
-Heap'd vp to them, we rest your Ermites
-
-   King. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
-We courst him at the heeles, and had a purpose
-To be his Purueyor: But he rides well,
-And his great Loue (sharpe as his Spurre) hath holp him
-To his home before vs: Faire and Noble Hostesse
-We are your guest to night
-
-   La. Your Seruants euer,
-Haue theirs, themselues, and what is theirs in compt,
-To make their Audit at your Highnesse pleasure,
-Still to returne your owne
-
-   King. Giue me your hand:
-Conduct me to mine Host we loue him highly,
-And shall continue, our Graces towards him.
-By your leaue Hostesse.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Septima.
-
-Hoboyes. Torches. Enter a Sewer, and diuers Seruants with Dishes
-and
-Seruice ouer the Stage. Then enter Macbeth
-
-   Macb. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twer well,
-It were done quickly: If th' Assassination
-Could trammell vp the Consequence, and catch
-With his surcease, Successe: that but this blow
-Might be the be all, and the end all. Heere,
-But heere, vpon this Banke and Schoole of time,
-Wee'ld iumpe the life to come. But in these Cases,
-We still haue iudgement heere, that we but teach
-Bloody Instructions, which being taught, returne
-To plague th' Inuenter, this euen-handed Iustice
-Commends th' Ingredience of our poyson'd Challice
-To our owne lips. Hee's heere in double trust;
-First, as I am his Kinsman, and his Subiect,
-Strong both against the Deed: Then, as his Host,
-Who should against his Murtherer shut the doore,
-Not beare the knife my selfe. Besides, this Duncane
-Hath borne his Faculties so meeke; hath bin
-So cleere in his great Office, that his Vertues
-Will pleade like Angels, Trumpet-tongu'd against
-The deepe damnation of his taking off:
-And Pitty, like a naked New-borne-Babe,
-Striding the blast, or Heauens Cherubin, hors'd
-Vpon the sightlesse Curriors of the Ayre,
-Shall blow the horrid deed in euery eye,
-That teares shall drowne the winde. I haue no Spurre
-To pricke the sides of my intent, but onely
-Vaulting Ambition, which ore-leapes it selfe,
-And falles on th' other.
-Enter Lady.
-
-How now? What Newes?
-  La. He has almost supt: why haue you left the chamber?
-  Mac. Hath he ask'd for me?
-  La. Know you not, he ha's?
-  Mac. We will proceed no further in this Businesse:
-He hath Honour'd me of late, and I haue bought
-Golden Opinions from all sorts of people,
-Which would be worne now in their newest glosse,
-Not cast aside so soone
-
-   La. Was the hope drunke,
-Wherein you drest your selfe? Hath it slept since?
-And wakes it now to looke so greene, and pale,
-At what it did so freely? From this time,
-Such I account thy loue. Art thou affear'd
-To be the same in thine owne Act, and Valour,
-As thou art in desire? Would'st thou haue that
-Which thou esteem'st the Ornament of Life,
-And liue a Coward in thine owne Esteeme?
-Letting I dare not, wait vpon I would,
-Like the poore Cat i'th' Addage
-
-   Macb. Prythee peace:
-I dare do all that may become a man,
-Who dares do more, is none
-
-   La. What Beast was't then
-That made you breake this enterprize to me?
-When you durst do it, then you were a man:
-And to be more then what you were, you would
-Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place
-Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
-They haue made themselues, and that their fitnesse now
-Do's vnmake you. I haue giuen Sucke, and know
-How tender 'tis to loue the Babe that milkes me,
-I would, while it was smyling in my Face,
-Haue pluckt my Nipple from his Bonelesse Gummes,
-And dasht the Braines out, had I so sworne
-As you haue done to this
-
-   Macb. If we should faile?
-  Lady. We faile?
-But screw your courage to the sticking place,
-And wee'le not fayle: when Duncan is asleepe,
-(Whereto the rather shall his dayes hard Iourney
-Soundly inuite him) his two Chamberlaines
-Will I with Wine, and Wassell, so conuince,
-That Memorie, the Warder of the Braine,
-Shall be a Fume, and the Receit of Reason
-A Lymbeck onely: when in Swinish sleepe,
-Their drenched Natures lyes as in a Death,
-What cannot you and I performe vpon
-Th' vnguarded Duncan? What not put vpon
-His spungie Officers? who shall beare the guilt
-Of our great quell
-
-   Macb. Bring forth Men-Children onely:
-For thy vndaunted Mettle should compose
-Nothing but Males. Will it not be receiu'd,
-When we haue mark'd with blood those sleepie two
-Of his owne Chamber, and vs'd their very Daggers,
-That they haue don't?
-  Lady. Who dares receiue it other,
-As we shall make our Griefes and Clamor rore,
-Vpon his Death?
-  Macb. I am settled, and bend vp
-Each corporall Agent to this terrible Feat.
-Away, and mock the time with fairest show,
-False Face must hide what the false Heart doth know.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo, and Fleance, with a Torch before him.
-
-  Banq. How goes the Night, Boy?
-  Fleance. The Moone is downe: I haue not heard the
-Clock
-
-   Banq. And she goes downe at Twelue
-
-   Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir
-
-   Banq. Hold, take my Sword:
-There's Husbandry in Heauen,
-Their Candles are all out: take thee that too.
-A heauie Summons lyes like Lead vpon me,
-And yet I would not sleepe:
-Mercifull Powers, restraine in me the cursed thoughts
-That Nature giues way to in repose.
-Enter Macbeth, and a Seruant with a Torch.
-
-Giue me my Sword: who's there?
-  Macb. A Friend
-
-   Banq. What Sir, not yet at rest? the King's a bed.
-He hath beene in vnusuall Pleasure,
-And sent forth great Largesse to your Offices.
-This Diamond he greetes your Wife withall,
-By the name of most kind Hostesse,
-And shut vp in measurelesse content
-
-   Mac. Being vnprepar'd,
-Our will became the seruant to defect,
-Which else should free haue wrought
-
-   Banq. All's well.
-I dreamt last Night of the three weyward Sisters:
-To you they haue shew'd some truth
-
-   Macb. I thinke not of them:
-Yet when we can entreat an houre to serue,
-We would spend it in some words vpon that Businesse,
-If you would graunt the time
-
-   Banq. At your kind'st leysure
-
-   Macb. If you shall cleaue to my consent,
-When 'tis, it shall make Honor for you
-
-   Banq. So I lose none,
-In seeking to augment it, but still keepe
-My Bosome franchis'd, and Allegeance cleare,
-I shall be counsail'd
-
-   Macb. Good repose the while
-
-   Banq. Thankes Sir: the like to you.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-  Macb. Goe bid thy Mistresse, when my drinke is ready,
-She strike vpon the Bell. Get thee to bed.
-Enter.
-
-Is this a Dagger, which I see before me,
-The Handle toward my Hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
-I haue thee not, and yet I see thee still.
-Art thou not fatall Vision, sensible
-To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
-A Dagger of the Minde, a false Creation,
-Proceeding from the heat-oppressed Braine?
-I see thee yet, in forme as palpable,
-As this which now I draw.
-Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
-And such an Instrument I was to vse.
-Mine Eyes are made the fooles o'th' other Sences,
-Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
-And on thy Blade, and Dudgeon, Gouts of Blood,
-Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
-It is the bloody Businesse, which informes
-Thus to mine Eyes. Now o're the one halfe World
-Nature seemes dead, and wicked Dreames abuse
-The Curtain'd sleepe: Witchcraft celebrates
-Pale Heccats Offrings: and wither'd Murther,
-Alarum'd by his Centinell, the Wolfe,
-Whose howle's his Watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
-With Tarquins rauishing sides, towards his designe
-Moues like a Ghost. Thou sowre and firme-set Earth
-Heare not my steps, which they may walke, for feare
-Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
-And take the present horror from the time,
-Which now sutes with it. Whiles I threat, he liues:
-Words to the heat of deedes too cold breath giues.
-
-A Bell rings.
-
-I goe, and it is done: the Bell inuites me.
-Heare it not, Duncan, for it is a Knell,
-That summons thee to Heauen, or to Hell.
-Enter.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Lady.
-
-  La. That which hath made the[m] drunk, hath made me bold:
-What hath quench'd them, hath giuen me fire.
-Hearke, peace: it was the Owle that shriek'd,
-The fatall Bell-man, which giues the stern'st good-night.
-He is about it, the Doores are open:
-And the surfeted Groomes doe mock their charge
-With Snores. I haue drugg'd their Possets,
-That Death and Nature doe contend about them,
-Whether they liue, or dye.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. Who's there? what hoa?
-  Lady. Alack, I am afraid they haue awak'd,
-And 'tis not done: th' attempt, and not the deed,
-Confounds vs: hearke: I lay'd their Daggers ready,
-He could not misse 'em. Had he not resembled
-My Father as he slept, I had don't.
-My Husband?
-  Macb. I haue done the deed:
-Didst thou not heare a noyse?
-  Lady. I heard the Owle schreame, and the Crickets cry.
-Did not you speake?
-  Macb. When?
-  Lady. Now
-
-   Macb. As I descended?
-  Lady. I
-
-   Macb. Hearke, who lyes i'th' second Chamber?
-  Lady. Donalbaine
-
-   Mac. This is a sorry sight
-
-   Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight
-
-   Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleepe,
-And one cry'd Murther, that they did wake each other:
-I stood, and heard them: But they did say their Prayers,
-And addrest them againe to sleepe
-
-   Lady. There are two lodg'd together
-
-   Macb. One cry'd God blesse vs, and Amen the other,
-As they had seene me with these Hangmans hands:
-Listning their feare, I could not say Amen,
-When they did say God blesse vs
-
-   Lady. Consider it not so deepely
-
-   Mac. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen?
-I had most need of Blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat
-
-   Lady. These deeds must not be thought
-After these wayes: so, it will make vs mad
-
-   Macb. Me thought I heard a voyce cry, Sleep no more:
-Macbeth does murther Sleepe, the innocent Sleepe,
-Sleepe that knits vp the rauel'd Sleeue of Care,
-The death of each dayes Life, sore Labors Bath,
-Balme of hurt Mindes, great Natures second Course,
-Chiefe nourisher in Life's Feast
-
-   Lady. What doe you meane?
-  Macb. Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the House:
-Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and therefore Cawdor
-Shall sleepe no more: Macbeth shall sleepe no more
-
-   Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why worthy Thane,
-You doe vnbend your Noble strength, to thinke
-So braine-sickly of things: Goe get some Water,
-And wash this filthie Witnesse from your Hand.
-Why did you bring these Daggers from the place?
-They must lye there: goe carry them, and smeare
-The sleepie Groomes with blood
-
-   Macb. Ile goe no more:
-I am afraid, to thinke what I haue done:
-Looke on't againe, I dare not
-
-   Lady. Infirme of purpose:
-Giue me the Daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
-Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Childhood,
-That feares a painted Deuill. If he doe bleed,
-Ile guild the Faces of the Groomes withall,
-For it must seeme their Guilt.
-Enter.
-
-Knocke within.
-
-  Macb. Whence is that knocking?
-How is't with me, when euery noyse appalls me?
-What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes.
-Will all great Neptunes Ocean wash this blood
-Cleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather
-The multitudinous Seas incarnardine,
-Making the Greene one, Red.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. My Hands are of your colour: but I shame
-To weare a Heart so white.
-
-Knocke.
-
-I heare a knocking at the South entry:
-Retyre we to our Chamber:
-A little Water cleares vs of this deed.
-How easie is it then? your Constancie
-Hath left you vnattended.
-
-Knocke.
-
-Hearke, more knocking.
-Get on your Night-Gowne, least occasion call vs,
-And shew vs to be Watchers: be not lost
-So poorely in your thoughts
-
-   Macb. To know my deed,
-
-Knocke.
-
-'Twere best not know my selfe.
-Wake Duncan with thy knocking:
-I would thou could'st.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
-
-  Porter. Here's a knocking indeede: if a man were
-Porter of Hell Gate, hee should haue old turning the
-Key.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there
-i'th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hang'd
-himselfe on th' expectation of Plentie: Come in time, haue
-Napkins enow about you, here you'le sweat for't.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name?
-Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in both
-the Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treason
-enough for Gods sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen:
-oh come in, Equiuocator.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an English
-Taylor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose:
-Come in Taylor, here you may rost your Goose.
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but this
-place is too cold for Hell. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further:
-I had thought to haue let in some of all Professions, that
-goe the Primrose way to th' euerlasting Bonfire.
-
-Knock.
-
-Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.
-Enter Macduff, and Lenox.
-
-  Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed,
-That you doe lye so late?
-  Port. Faith Sir, we were carowsing till the second Cock:
-And Drinke, Sir, is a great prouoker of three things
-
-   Macd. What three things does Drinke especially
-prouoke?
-  Port. Marry, Sir, Nose-painting, Sleepe, and Vrine.
-Lecherie, Sir, it prouokes, and vnprouokes: it prouokes
-the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore
-much Drinke may be said to be an Equiuocator with Lecherie:
-it makes him, and it marres him; it sets him on,
-and it takes him off; it perswades him, and dis-heartens
-him; makes him stand too, and not stand too: in conclusion,
-equiuocates him in a sleepe, and giuing him the Lye,
-leaues him
-
-   Macd. I beleeue, Drinke gaue thee the Lye last Night
-
-   Port. That it did, Sir, i'the very Throat on me: but I
-requited him for his Lye, and (I thinke) being too strong
-for him, though he tooke vp my Legges sometime, yet I
-made a Shift to cast him.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macd. Is thy Master stirring?
-Our knocking ha's awak'd him: here he comes
-
-   Lenox. Good morrow, Noble Sir
-
-   Macb. Good morrow both
-
-   Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?
-  Macb. Not yet
-
-   Macd. He did command me to call timely on him,
-I haue almost slipt the houre
-
-   Macb. Ile bring you to him
-
-   Macd. I know this is a ioyfull trouble to you:
-But yet 'tis one
-
-   Macb. The labour we delight in, Physicks paine:
-This is the Doore
-
-   Macd. Ile make so bold to call, for 'tis my limitted
-seruice.
-
-Exit Macduffe.
-
-  Lenox. Goes the King hence to day?
-  Macb. He does: he did appoint so
-
-   Lenox. The Night ha's been vnruly:
-Where we lay, our Chimneys were blowne downe,
-And (as they say) lamentings heard i'th' Ayre;
-Strange Schreemes of Death,
-And Prophecying, with Accents terrible,
-Of dyre Combustion, and confus'd Euents,
-New hatch'd toth' wofull time.
-The obscure Bird clamor'd the liue-long Night.
-Some say, the Earth was Feuorous,
-And did shake
-
-   Macb. 'Twas a rough Night
-
-   Lenox. My young remembrance cannot paralell
-A fellow to it.
-Enter Macduff.
-
-  Macd. O horror, horror, horror,
-Tongue nor Heart cannot conceiue, nor name thee
-
-   Macb. and Lenox. What's the matter?
-  Macd. Confusion now hath made his Master-peece:
-Most sacrilegious Murther hath broke ope
-The Lords anoynted Temple, and stole thence
-The Life o'th' Building
-
-   Macb. What is't you say, the Life?
-  Lenox. Meane you his Maiestie?
-  Macd. Approch the Chamber, and destroy your sight
-With a new Gorgon. Doe not bid me speake:
-See, and then speake your selues: awake, awake,
-
-Exeunt. Macbeth and Lenox.
-
-Ring the Alarum Bell: Murther, and Treason,
-Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolme awake,
-Shake off this Downey sleepe, Deaths counterfeit,
-And looke on Death it selfe: vp, vp, and see
-The great Doomes Image: Malcolme, Banquo,
-As from your Graues rise vp, and walke like Sprights,
-To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell.
-
-Bell rings. Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. What's the Businesse?
-That such a hideous Trumpet calls to parley
-The sleepers of the House? speake, speake
-
-   Macd. O gentle Lady,
-'Tis not for you to heare what I can speake:
-The repetition in a Womans eare,
-Would murther as it fell.
-Enter Banquo.
-
-O Banquo, Banquo, Our Royall Master's murther'd
-
-   Lady. Woe, alas:
-What, in our House?
-  Ban. Too cruell, any where.
-Deare Duff, I prythee contradict thy selfe,
-And say, it is not so.
-Enter Macbeth, Lenox, and Rosse.
-
-  Macb. Had I but dy'd an houre before this chance,
-I had liu'd a blessed time: for from this instant,
-There's nothing serious in Mortalitie:
-All is but Toyes: Renowne and Grace is dead,
-The Wine of Life is drawne, and the meere Lees
-Is left this Vault, to brag of.
-Enter Malcolme and Donalbaine.
-
-  Donal. What is amisse?
-  Macb. You are, and doe not know't:
-The Spring, the Head, the Fountaine of your Blood
-Is stopt, the very Source of it is stopt
-
-   Macd. Your Royall Father's murther'd
-
-   Mal. Oh, by whom?
-  Lenox. Those of his Chamber, as it seem'd, had don't:
-Their Hands and Faces were all badg'd with blood,
-So were their Daggers, which vnwip'd, we found
-Vpon their Pillowes: they star'd, and were distracted,
-No mans Life was to be trusted with them
-
-   Macb. O, yet I doe repent me of my furie,
-That I did kill them
-
-   Macd. Wherefore did you so?
-  Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temp'rate, & furious,
-Loyall, and Neutrall, in a moment? No man:
-Th' expedition of my violent Loue
-Out-run the pawser, Reason. Here lay Duncan,
-His Siluer skinne, lac'd with His Golden Blood,
-And his gash'd Stabs, look'd like a Breach in Nature,
-For Ruines wastfull entrance: there the Murtherers,
-Steep'd in the Colours of their Trade; their Daggers
-Vnmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refraine,
-That had a heart to loue; and in that heart,
-Courage, to make's loue knowne?
-  Lady. Helpe me hence, hoa
-
-   Macd. Looke to the Lady
-
-   Mal. Why doe we hold our tongues,
-That most may clayme this argument for ours?
-  Donal. What should be spoken here,
-Where our Fate hid in an augure hole,
-May rush, and seize vs? Let's away,
-Our Teares are not yet brew'd
-
-   Mal. Nor our strong Sorrow
-Vpon the foot of Motion
-
-   Banq. Looke to the Lady:
-And when we haue our naked Frailties hid,
-That suffer in exposure; let vs meet,
-And question this most bloody piece of worke,
-To know it further. Feares and scruples shake vs:
-In the great Hand of God I stand, and thence,
-Against the vndivulg'd pretence, I fight
-Of Treasonous Mallice
-
-   Macd. And so doe I
-
-   All. So all
-
-   Macb. Let's briefely put on manly readinesse,
-And meet i'th' Hall together
-
-   All. Well contented.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-  Malc. What will you doe?
-Let's not consort with them:
-To shew an vnfelt Sorrow, is an Office
-Which the false man do's easie.
-Ile to England
-
-   Don. To Ireland, I:
-Our seperated fortune shall keepe vs both the safer:
-Where we are, there's Daggers in mens smiles;
-The neere in blood, the neerer bloody
-
-   Malc. This murtherous Shaft that's shot,
-Hath not yet lighted: and our safest way,
-Is to auoid the ayme. Therefore to Horse,
-And let vs not be daintie of leaue-taking,
-But shift away: there's warrant in that Theft,
-Which steales it selfe, when there's no mercie left.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Enter Rosse, with an Old man.
-
-  Old man. Threescore and ten I can remember well,
-Within the Volume of which Time, I haue seene
-Houres dreadfull, and things strange: but this sore Night
-Hath trifled former knowings
-
-   Rosse. Ha, good Father,
-Thou seest the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act,
-Threatens his bloody Stage: byth' Clock 'tis Day,
-And yet darke Night strangles the trauailing Lampe:
-Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes shame,
-That Darknesse does the face of Earth intombe,
-When liuing Light should kisse it?
-  Old man. 'Tis vnnaturall,
-Euen like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last,
-A Faulcon towring in her pride of place,
-Was by a Mowsing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd
-
-   Rosse. And Duncans Horses,
-(A thing most strange, and certaine)
-Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race,
-Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their stalls, flong out,
-Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they would
-Make Warre with Mankinde
-
-   Old man. 'Tis said, they eate each other
-
-   Rosse. They did so:
-To th' amazement of mine eyes that look'd vpon't.
-Enter Macduffe.
-
-Heere comes the good Macduffe.
-How goes the world Sir, now?
-  Macd. Why see you not?
-  Ross. Is't known who did this more then bloody deed?
-  Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slaine
-
-   Ross. Alas the day,
-What good could they pretend?
-  Macd. They were subborned,
-Malcolme, and Donalbaine the Kings two Sonnes
-Are stolne away and fled, which puts vpon them
-Suspition of the deed
-
-   Rosse. 'Gainst Nature still,
-Thriftlesse Ambition, that will rauen vp
-Thine owne liues meanes: Then 'tis most like,
-The Soueraignty will fall vpon Macbeth
-
-   Macd. He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone
-To be inuested
-
-   Rosse. Where is Duncans body?
-  Macd. Carried to Colmekill,
-The Sacred Store-house of his Predecessors,
-And Guardian of their Bones
-
-   Rosse. Will you to Scone?
-  Macd. No Cosin, Ile to Fife
-
-   Rosse. Well, I will thither
-
-   Macd. Well may you see things wel done there: Adieu
-Least our old Robes sit easier then our new
-
-   Rosse. Farewell, Father
-
-   Old M. Gods benyson go with you, and with those
-That would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes.
-
-Exeunt. omnes
-
-Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo.
-
-  Banq. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
-As the weyard Women promis'd, and I feare
-Thou playd'st most fowly for't: yet it was saide
-It should not stand in thy Posterity,
-But that my selfe should be the Roote, and Father
-Of many Kings. If there come truth from them,
-As vpon thee Macbeth, their Speeches shine,
-Why by the verities on thee made good,
-May they not be my Oracles as well,
-And set me vp in hope. But hush, no more.
-
-Senit sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Lenox, Rosse, Lords,
-and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. Heere's our chiefe Guest
-
-   La. If he had beene forgotten,
-It had bene as a gap in our great Feast,
-And all-thing vnbecomming
-
-   Macb. To night we hold a solemne Supper sir,
-And Ile request your presence
-
-   Banq. Let your Highnesse
-Command vpon me, to the which my duties
-Are with a most indissoluble tye
-For euer knit
-
-   Macb. Ride you this afternoone?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. We should haue else desir'd your good aduice
-(Which still hath been both graue, and prosperous)
-In this dayes Councell: but wee'le take to morrow.
-Is't farre you ride?
-  Ban. As farre, my Lord, as will fill vp the time
-'Twixt this, and Supper. Goe not my Horse the better,
-I must become a borrower of the Night,
-For a darke houre, or twaine
-
-   Macb. Faile not our Feast
-
-   Ban. My Lord, I will not
-
-   Macb. We heare our bloody Cozens are bestow'd
-In England, and in Ireland, not confessing
-Their cruell Parricide, filling their hearers
-With strange inuention. But of that to morrow,
-When therewithall, we shall haue cause of State,
-Crauing vs ioyntly. Hye you to Horse:
-Adieu, till you returne at Night.
-Goes Fleance with you?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord: our time does call vpon's
-
-   Macb. I wish your Horses swift, and sure of foot:
-And so I doe commend you to their backs.
-Farwell.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-Let euery man be master of his time,
-Till seuen at Night, to make societie
-The sweeter welcome:
-We will keepe our selfe till Supper time alone:
-While then, God be with you.
-
-Exeunt. Lords.
-
-Sirrha, a word with you: Attend those men
-Our pleasure?
-  Seruant. They are, my Lord, without the Pallace
-Gate
-
-   Macb. Bring them before vs.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-To be thus, is nothing, but to be safely thus
-Our feares in Banquo sticke deepe,
-And in his Royaltie of Nature reignes that
-Which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
-And to that dauntlesse temper of his Minde,
-He hath a Wisdome, that doth guide his Valour,
-To act in safetie. There is none but he,
-Whose being I doe feare: and vnder him,
-My Genius is rebuk'd, as it is said
-Mark Anthonies was by Caesar. He chid the Sisters,
-When first they put the Name of King vpon me,
-And bad them speake to him. Then Prophet-like,
-They hayl'd him Father to a Line of Kings.
-Vpon my Head they plac'd a fruitlesse Crowne,
-And put a barren Scepter in my Gripe,
-Thence to be wrencht with an vnlineall Hand,
-No Sonne of mine succeeding: if't be so,
-For Banquo's Issue haue I fil'd my Minde,
-For them, the gracious Duncan haue I murther'd,
-Put Rancours in the Vessell of my Peace
-Onely for them, and mine eternall Iewell
-Giuen to the common Enemie of Man,
-To make them Kings, the Seedes of Banquo Kings.
-Rather then so, come Fate into the Lyst,
-And champion me to th' vtterance.
-Who's there?
-Enter Seruant, and two Murtherers.
-
-Now goe to the Doore, and stay there till we call.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
-  Murth. It was, so please your Highnesse
-
-   Macb. Well then,
-Now haue you consider'd of my speeches:
-Know, that it was he, in the times past,
-Which held you so vnder fortune,
-Which you thought had been our innocent selfe.
-This I made good to you, in our last conference,
-Past in probation with you:
-How you were borne in hand, how crost:
-The Instruments: who wrought with them:
-And all things else, that might
-To halfe a Soule, and to a Notion craz'd,
-Say, Thus did Banquo
-
-   1.Murth. You made it knowne to vs
-
-   Macb. I did so:
-And went further, which is now
-Our point of second meeting.
-Doe you finde your patience so predominant,
-In your nature, that you can let this goe?
-Are you so Gospell'd, to pray for this good man,
-And for his Issue, whose heauie hand
-Hath bow'd you to the Graue, and begger'd
-Yours for euer?
-  1.Murth. We are men, my Liege
-
-   Macb. I, in the Catalogue ye goe for men,
-As Hounds, and Greyhounds, Mungrels, Spaniels, Curres,
-Showghes, Water-Rugs, and Demy-Wolues are clipt
-All by the Name of Dogges: the valued file
-Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
-The House-keeper, the Hunter, euery one
-According to the gift, which bounteous Nature
-Hath in him clos'd: whereby he does receiue
-Particular addition, from the Bill,
-That writes them all alike: and so of men.
-Now, if you haue a station in the file,
-Not i'th' worst ranke of Manhood, say't,
-And I will put that Businesse in your Bosomes,
-Whose execution takes your Enemie off,
-Grapples you to the heart; and loue of vs,
-Who weare our Health but sickly in his Life,
-Which in his Death were perfect
-
-   2.Murth. I am one, my Liege,
-Whom the vile Blowes and Buffets of the World
-Hath so incens'd, that I am recklesse what I doe,
-To spight the World
-
-   1.Murth. And I another,
-So wearie with Disasters, tugg'd with Fortune,
-That I would set my Life on any Chance,
-To mend it, or be rid on't
-
-   Macb. Both of you know Banquo was your Enemie
-
-   Murth. True, my Lord
-
-   Macb. So is he mine: and in such bloody distance,
-That euery minute of his being, thrusts
-Against my neer'st of Life: and though I could
-With bare-fac'd power sweepe him from my sight,
-And bid my will auouch it; yet I must not,
-For certaine friends that are both his, and mine,
-Whose loues I may not drop, but wayle his fall,
-Who I my selfe struck downe: and thence it is,
-That I to your assistance doe make loue,
-Masking the Businesse from the common Eye,
-For sundry weightie Reasons
-
-   2.Murth. We shall, my Lord,
-Performe what you command vs
-
-   1.Murth. Though our Liues-
-  Macb. Your Spirits shine through you.
-Within this houre, at most,
-I will aduise you where to plant your selues,
-Acquaint you with the perfect Spy o'th' time,
-The moment on't, for't must be done to Night,
-And something from the Pallace: alwayes thought,
-That I require a clearenesse; and with him,
-To leaue no Rubs nor Botches in the Worke:
-  Fleans , his Sonne, that keepes him companie,
-Whose absence is no lesse materiall to me,
-Then is his Fathers, must embrace the fate
-Of that darke houre: resolue your selues apart,
-Ile come to you anon
-
-   Murth. We are resolu'd, my Lord
-
-   Macb. Ile call vpon you straight: abide within,
-It is concluded: Banquo, thy Soules flight,
-If it finde Heauen, must finde it out to Night.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macbeths Lady, and a Seruant.
-
-  Lady. Is Banquo gone from Court?
-  Seruant. I, Madame, but returnes againe to Night
-
-   Lady. Say to the King, I would attend his leysure,
-For a few words
-
-   Seruant. Madame, I will.
-Enter.
-
-  Lady. Nought's had, all's spent.
-Where our desire is got without content:
-'Tis safer, to be that which we destroy,
-Then by destruction dwell in doubtfull ioy.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-How now, my Lord, why doe you keepe alone?
-Of sorryest Fancies your Companions making,
-Vsing those Thoughts, which should indeed haue dy'd
-With them they thinke on: things without all remedie
-Should be without regard: what's done, is done
-
-   Macb. We haue scorch'd the Snake, not kill'd it:
-Shee'le close, and be her selfe, whilest our poore Mallice
-Remaines in danger of her former Tooth.
-But let the frame of things dis-ioynt,
-Both the Worlds suffer,
-Ere we will eate our Meale in feare, and sleepe
-In the affliction of these terrible Dreames,
-That shake vs Nightly: Better be with the dead,
-Whom we, to gayne our peace, haue sent to peace,
-Then on the torture of the Minde to lye
-In restlesse extasie.
-Duncane is in his Graue:
-After Lifes fitfull Feuer, he sleepes well,
-Treason ha's done his worst: nor Steele, nor Poyson,
-Mallice domestique, forraine Leuie, nothing,
-Can touch him further
-
-   Lady. Come on:
-Gentle my Lord, sleeke o're your rugged Lookes,
-Be bright and Iouiall among your Guests to Night
-
-   Macb. So shall I Loue, and so I pray be you:
-Let your remembrance apply to Banquo,
-Present him Eminence, both with Eye and Tongue:
-Vnsafe the while, that wee must laue
-Our Honors in these flattering streames,
-And make our Faces Vizards to our Hearts,
-Disguising what they are
-
-   Lady. You must leaue this
-
-   Macb. O, full of Scorpions is my Minde, deare Wife:
-Thou know'st, that Banquo and his Fleans liues
-
-   Lady. But in them, Natures Coppie's not eterne
-
-   Macb. There's comfort yet, they are assaileable,
-Then be thou iocund: ere the Bat hath flowne
-His Cloyster'd flight, ere to black Heccats summons
-The shard-borne Beetle, with his drowsie hums,
-Hath rung Nights yawning Peale,
-There shall be done a deed of dreadfull note
-
-   Lady. What's to be done?
-  Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck,
-Till thou applaud the deed: Come, seeling Night,
-Skarfe vp the tender Eye of pittifull Day,
-And with thy bloodie and inuisible Hand
-Cancell and teare to pieces that great Bond,
-Which keepes me pale. Light thickens,
-And the Crow makes Wing toth' Rookie Wood:
-Good things of Day begin to droope, and drowse,
-Whiles Nights black Agents to their Prey's doe rowse.
-Thou maruell'st at my words: but hold thee still,
-Things bad begun, make strong themselues by ill:
-So prythee goe with me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter three Murtherers.
-
-  1. But who did bid thee ioyne with vs?
-  3. Macbeth
-
-   2. He needes not our mistrust, since he deliuers
-Our Offices, and what we haue to doe,
-To the direction iust
-
-   1. Then stand with vs:
-The West yet glimmers with some streakes of Day.
-Now spurres the lated Traueller apace,
-To gayne the timely Inne, and neere approches
-The subiect of our Watch
-
-   3. Hearke, I heare Horses
-
-   Banquo within. Giue vs a Light there, hoa
-
-   2. Then 'tis hee:
-The rest, that are within the note of expectation,
-Alreadie are i'th' Court
-
-   1. His Horses goe about
-
-   3. Almost a mile: but he does vsually,
-So all men doe, from hence toth' Pallace Gate
-Make it their Walke.
-Enter Banquo and Fleans, with a Torch.
-
-  2. A Light, a Light
-
-   3. 'Tis hee
-
-   1. Stand too't
-
-   Ban. It will be Rayne to Night
-
-   1. Let it come downe
-
-   Ban. O, Trecherie!
-Flye good Fleans, flye, flye, flye,
-Thou may'st reuenge. O Slaue!
-  3. Who did strike out the Light?
-  1. Was't not the way?
-  3. There's but one downe: the Sonne is fled
-
-   2. We haue lost
-Best halfe of our Affaire
-
-   1. Well, let's away, and say how much is done.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Quarta.
-
-Banquet prepar'd. Enter Macbeth, Lady, Rosse, Lenox, Lords, and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. You know your owne degrees, sit downe:
-At first and last, the hearty welcome
-
-   Lords. Thankes to your Maiesty
-
-   Macb. Our selfe will mingle with Society,
-And play the humble Host:
-Our Hostesse keepes her State, but in best time
-We will require her welcome
-
-   La. Pronounce it for me Sir, to all our Friends,
-For my heart speakes, they are welcome.
-Enter first Murtherer.
-
-  Macb. See they encounter thee with their harts thanks
-Both sides are euen: heere Ile sit i'th' mid'st,
-Be large in mirth, anon wee'l drinke a Measure
-The Table round. There's blood vpon thy face
-
-   Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then
-
-   Macb. 'Tis better thee without, then he within.
-Is he dispatch'd?
-  Mur. My Lord his throat is cut, that I did for him
-
-   Mac. Thou art the best o'th' Cut-throats,
-Yet hee's good that did the like for Fleans:
-If thou did'st it, thou art the Non-pareill
-
-   Mur. Most Royall Sir
-Fleans is scap'd
-
-   Macb. Then comes my Fit againe:
-I had else beene perfect;
-Whole as the Marble, founded as the Rocke,
-As broad, and generall, as the casing Ayre:
-But now I am cabin'd, crib'd, confin'd, bound in
-To sawcy doubts, and feares. But Banquo's safe?
-  Mur. I, my good Lord: safe in a ditch he bides,
-With twenty trenched gashes on his head;
-The least a Death to Nature
-
-   Macb. Thankes for that:
-There the growne Serpent lyes, the worme that's fled
-Hath Nature that in time will Venom breed,
-No teeth for th' present. Get thee gone, to morrow
-Wee'l heare our selues againe.
-
-Exit Murderer.
-
-  Lady. My Royall Lord,
-You do not giue the Cheere, the Feast is sold
-That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making:
-'Tis giuen, with welcome: to feede were best at home:
-From thence, the sawce to meate is Ceremony,
-Meeting were bare without it.
-Enter the Ghost of Banquo, and sits in Macbeths place.
-
-  Macb. Sweet Remembrancer:
-Now good digestion waite on Appetite,
-And health on both
-
-   Lenox. May't please your Highnesse sit
-
-   Macb. Here had we now our Countries Honor, roof'd,
-Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present:
-Who, may I rather challenge for vnkindnesse,
-Then pitty for Mischance
-
-   Rosse. His absence (Sir)
-Layes blame vpon his promise. Pleas't your Highnesse
-To grace vs with your Royall Company?
-  Macb. The Table's full
-
-   Lenox. Heere is a place reseru'd Sir
-
-   Macb. Where?
-  Lenox. Heere my good Lord.
-What is't that moues your Highnesse?
-  Macb. Which of you haue done this?
-  Lords. What, my good Lord?
-  Macb. Thou canst not say I did it: neuer shake
-Thy goary lockes at me
-
-   Rosse. Gentlemen rise, his Highnesse is not well
-
-   Lady. Sit worthy Friends: my Lord is often thus,
-And hath beene from his youth. Pray you keepe Seat,
-The fit is momentary, vpon a thought
-He will againe be well. If much you note him
-You shall offend him, and extend his Passion,
-Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man?
-  Macb. I, and a bold one, that dare looke on that
-Which might appall the Diuell
-
-   La. O proper stuffe:
-This is the very painting of your feare:
-This is the Ayre-drawne-Dagger which you said
-Led you to Duncan. O, these flawes and starts
-(Impostors to true feare) would well become
-A womans story, at a Winters fire
-Authoriz'd by her Grandam: shame it selfe,
-Why do you make such faces? When all's done
-You looke but on a stoole
-
-   Macb. Prythee see there:
-Behold, looke, loe, how say you:
-Why what care I, if thou canst nod, speake too.
-If Charnell houses, and our Graues must send
-Those that we bury, backe; our Monuments
-Shall be the Mawes of Kytes
-
-   La. What? quite vnmann'd in folly
-
-   Macb. If I stand heere, I saw him
-
-   La. Fie for shame
-
-   Macb. Blood hath bene shed ere now, i'th' olden time
-Ere humane Statute purg'd the gentle Weale:
-I, and since too, Murthers haue bene perform'd
-Too terrible for the eare. The times has bene,
-That when the Braines were out, the man would dye,
-And there an end: But now they rise againe
-With twenty mortall murthers on their crownes,
-And push vs from our stooles. This is more strange
-Then such a murther is
-
-   La. My worthy Lord
-Your Noble Friends do lacke you
-
-   Macb. I do forget:
-Do not muse at me my most worthy Friends,
-I haue a strange infirmity, which is nothing
-To those that know me. Come, loue and health to all,
-Then Ile sit downe: Giue me some Wine, fill full:
-Enter Ghost.
-
-I drinke to th' generall ioy o'th' whole Table,
-And to our deere Friend Banquo, whom we misse:
-Would he were heere: to all, and him we thirst,
-And all to all
-
-   Lords. Our duties, and the pledge
-
-   Mac. Auant, & quit my sight, let the earth hide thee:
-Thy bones are marrowlesse, thy blood is cold:
-Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
-Which thou dost glare with
-
-   La. Thinke of this good Peeres
-But as a thing of Custome: 'Tis no other,
-Onely it spoyles the pleasure of the time
-
-   Macb. What man dare, I dare:
-Approach thou like the rugged Russian Beare,
-The arm'd Rhinoceros, or th' Hircan Tiger,
-Take any shape but that, and my firme Nerues
-Shall neuer tremble. Or be aliue againe,
-And dare me to the Desart with thy Sword:
-If trembling I inhabit then, protest mee
-The Baby of a Girle. Hence horrible shadow,
-Vnreall mock'ry hence. Why so, being gone
-I am a man againe: pray you sit still
-
-   La. You haue displac'd the mirth,
-Broke the good meeting, with most admir'd disorder
-
-   Macb. Can such things be,
-And ouercome vs like a Summers Clowd,
-Without our speciall wonder? You make me strange
-Euen to the disposition that I owe,
-When now I thinke you can behold such sights,
-And keepe the naturall Rubie of your Cheekes,
-When mine is blanch'd with feare
-
-   Rosse. What sights, my Lord?
-  La. I pray you speake not: he growes worse & worse
-Question enrages him: at once, goodnight.
-Stand not vpon the order of your going,
-But go at once
-
-   Len. Good night, and better health
-Attend his Maiesty
-
-   La. A kinde goodnight to all.
-
-Exit Lords.
-
-  Macb. It will haue blood they say:
-Blood will haue Blood:
-Stones haue beene knowne to moue, & Trees to speake:
-Augures, and vnderstood Relations, haue
-By Maggot Pyes, & Choughes, & Rookes brought forth
-The secret'st man of Blood. What is the night?
-  La. Almost at oddes with morning, which is which
-
-   Macb. How say'st thou that Macduff denies his person
-At our great bidding
-
-   La. Did you send to him Sir?
-  Macb. I heare it by the way: But I will send:
-There's not a one of them but in his house
-I keepe a Seruant Feed. I will to morrow
-(And betimes I will) to the weyard Sisters.
-More shall they speake: for now I am bent to know
-By the worst meanes, the worst, for mine owne good,
-All causes shall giue way. I am in blood
-Stept in so farre, that should I wade no more,
-Returning were as tedious as go ore:
-Strange things I haue in head, that will to hand,
-Which must be acted, ere they may be scand
-
-   La. You lacke the season of all Natures, sleepe
-
-   Macb. Come, wee'l to sleepe: My strange & self-abuse
-Is the initiate feare, that wants hard vse:
-We are yet but yong indeed.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecat.
-
-  1. Why how now Hecat, you looke angerly?
-  Hec. Haue I not reason (Beldams) as you are?
-Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare
-To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,
-In Riddles, and Affaires of death;
-And I the Mistris of your Charmes,
-The close contriuer of all harmes,
-Was neuer call'd to beare my part,
-Or shew the glory of our Art?
-And which is worse, all you haue done
-Hath bene but for a wayward Sonne,
-Spightfull, and wrathfull, who (as others do)
-Loues for his owne ends, not for you.
-But make amends now: Get you gon,
-And at the pit of Acheron
-Meete me i'th' Morning: thither he
-Will come, to know his Destinie.
-Your Vessels, and your Spels prouide,
-Your Charmes, and euery thing beside;
-I am for th' Ayre: This night Ile spend
-Vnto a dismall, and a Fatall end.
-Great businesse must be wrought ere Noone.
-Vpon the Corner of the Moone
-There hangs a vap'rous drop, profound,
-Ile catch it ere it come to ground;
-And that distill'd by Magicke slights,
-Shall raise such Artificiall Sprights,
-As by the strength of their illusion,
-Shall draw him on to his Confusion.
-He shall spurne Fate, scorne Death, and beare
-His hopes 'boue Wisedome, Grace, and Feare:
-And you all know, Security
-Is Mortals cheefest Enemie.
-
-Musicke, and a Song.
-
-Hearke, I am call'd: my little Spirit see
-Sits in Foggy cloud, and stayes for me.
-
-Sing within. Come away, come away, &c.
-
-  1 Come, let's make hast, shee'l soone be
-Backe againe.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Sexta.
-
-Enter Lenox, and another Lord.
-
-  Lenox. My former Speeches,
-Haue but hit your Thoughts
-Which can interpret farther: Onely I say
-Things haue bin strangely borne. The gracious Duncan
-Was pittied of Macbeth: marry he was dead:
-And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,
-Whom you may say (if't please you) Fleans kill'd,
-For Fleans fled: Men must not walke too late.
-Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous
-It was for Malcolme, and for Donalbane
-To kill their gracious Father? Damned Fact,
-How it did greeue Macbeth? Did he not straight
-In pious rage, the two delinquents teare,
-That were the Slaues of drinke, and thralles of sleepe?
-Was not that Nobly done? I, and wisely too:
-For 'twould haue anger'd any heart aliue
-To heare the men deny't. So that I say,
-He ha's borne all things well, and I do thinke,
-That had he Duncans Sonnes vnder his Key,
-(As, and't please Heauen he shall not) they should finde
-What 'twere to kill a Father: So should Fleans.
-But peace; for from broad words, and cause he fayl'd
-His presence at the Tyrants Feast, I heare
-Macduffe liues in disgrace. Sir, can you tell
-Where he bestowes himselfe?
-  Lord. The Sonnes of Duncane
-(From whom this Tyrant holds the due of Birth)
-Liues in the English Court, and is receyu'd
-Of the most Pious Edward, with such grace,
-That the maleuolence of Fortune, nothing
-Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduffe
-Is gone, to pray the Holy King, vpon his ayd
-To wake Northumberland, and warlike Seyward,
-That by the helpe of these (with him aboue)
-To ratifie the Worke) we may againe
-Giue to our Tables meate, sleepe to our Nights:
-Free from our Feasts, and Banquets bloody kniues;
-Do faithfull Homage, and receiue free Honors,
-All which we pine for now. And this report
-Hath so exasperate their King, that hee
-Prepares for some attempt of Warre
-
-   Len. Sent he to Macduffe?
-  Lord. He did: and with an absolute Sir, not I
-The clowdy Messenger turnes me his backe,
-And hums; as who should say, you'l rue the time
-That clogges me with this Answer
-
-   Lenox. And that well might
-Aduise him to a Caution, t' hold what distance
-His wisedome can prouide. Some holy Angell
-Flye to the Court of England, and vnfold
-His Message ere he come, that a swift blessing
-May soone returne to this our suffering Country,
-Vnder a hand accurs'd
-
-   Lord. Ile send my Prayers with him.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1 Thrice the brinded Cat hath mew'd
-
-   2 Thrice, and once the Hedge-Pigge whin'd
-
-   3 Harpier cries, 'tis time, 'tis time
-
-   1 Round about the Caldron go:
-In the poysond Entrailes throw
-Toad, that vnder cold stone,
-Dayes and Nights, ha's thirty one:
-Sweltred Venom sleeping got,
-Boyle thou first i'th' charmed pot
-
-   All. Double, double, toile and trouble;
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Fillet of a Fenny Snake,
-In the Cauldron boyle and bake:
-Eye of Newt, and Toe of Frogge,
-Wooll of Bat, and Tongue of Dogge:
-Adders Forke, and Blinde-wormes Sting,
-Lizards legge, and Howlets wing:
-For a Charme of powrefull trouble,
-Like a Hell-broth, boyle and bubble
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   3 Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolfe,
-Witches Mummey, Maw, and Gulfe
-Of the rauin'd salt Sea sharke:
-Roote of Hemlocke, digg'd i'th' darke:
-Liuer of Blaspheming Iew,
-Gall of Goate, and Slippes of Yew,
-Sliuer'd in the Moones Ecclipse:
-Nose of Turke, and Tartars lips:
-Finger of Birth-strangled Babe,
-Ditch-deliuer'd by a Drab,
-Make the Grewell thicke, and slab.
-Adde thereto a Tigers Chawdron,
-For th' Ingredience of our Cawdron
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Coole it with a Baboones blood,
-Then the Charme is firme and good.
-Enter Hecat, and the other three Witches.
-
-  Hec. O well done: I commend your paines,
-And euery one shall share i'th' gaines:
-And now about the Cauldron sing
-Like Elues and Fairies in a Ring,
-Inchanting all that you put in.
-
-Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.
-
-  2 By the pricking of my Thumbes,
-Something wicked this way comes:
-Open Lockes, who euer knockes.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. How now you secret, black, & midnight Hags?
-What is't you do?
-  All. A deed without a name
-
-   Macb. I coniure you, by that which you Professe,
-(How ere you come to know it) answer me:
-Though you vntye the Windes, and let them fight
-Against the Churches: Though the yesty Waues
-Confound and swallow Nauigation vp:
-Though bladed Corne be lodg'd, & Trees blown downe,
-Though Castles topple on their Warders heads:
-Though Pallaces, and Pyramids do slope
-Their heads to their Foundations: Though the treasure
-Of Natures Germaine, tumble altogether,
-Euen till destruction sicken: Answer me
-To what I aske you
-
-   1 Speake
-
-   2 Demand
-
-   3 Wee'l answer
-
-   1 Say, if th'hadst rather heare it from our mouthes,
-Or from our Masters
-
-   Macb. Call 'em: let me see 'em
-
-   1 Powre in Sowes blood, that hath eaten
-Her nine Farrow: Greaze that's sweaten
-From the Murderers Gibbet, throw
-Into the Flame
-
-   All. Come high or low:
-Thy Selfe and Office deaftly show.
-Thunder. 1. Apparation, an Armed Head.
-
-  Macb. Tell me, thou vnknowne power
-
-   1 He knowes thy thought:
-Heare his speech, but say thou nought
-
-   1 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth:
-Beware Macduffe,
-Beware the Thane of Fife: dismisse me. Enough.
-
-He Descends.
-
-  Macb. What ere thou art, for thy good caution, thanks
-Thou hast harp'd my feare aright. But one word more
-
-   1 He will not be commanded: heere's another
-More potent then the first.
-
-Thunder. 2 Apparition, a Bloody Childe.
-
-  2 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth
-
-   Macb. Had I three eares, Il'd heare thee
-
-   Appar. Be bloody, bold, & resolute:
-Laugh to scorne
-The powre of man: For none of woman borne
-Shall harme Macbeth.
-
-Descends.
-
-  Mac. Then liue Macduffe: what need I feare of thee?
-But yet Ile make assurance: double sure,
-And take a Bond of Fate: thou shalt not liue,
-That I may tell pale-hearted Feare, it lies;
-And sleepe in spight of Thunder.
-
-Thunder 3 Apparation, a Childe Crowned, with a Tree in his hand.
-
-What is this, that rises like the issue of a King,
-And weares vpon his Baby-brow, the round
-And top of Soueraignty?
-  All. Listen, but speake not too't
-
-   3 Appar. Be Lyon metled, proud, and take no care:
-Who chafes, who frets, or where Conspirers are:
-Macbeth shall neuer vanquish'd be, vntill
-Great Byrnam Wood, to high Dunsmane Hill
-Shall come against him.
-
-Descend.
-
-  Macb. That will neuer bee:
-Who can impresse the Forrest, bid the Tree
-Vnfixe his earth-bound Root? Sweet boadments, good:
-Rebellious dead, rise neuer till the Wood
-Of Byrnan rise, and our high plac'd Macbeth
-Shall liue the Lease of Nature, pay his breath
-To time, and mortall Custome. Yet my Hart
-Throbs to know one thing: Tell me, if your Art
-Can tell so much: Shall Banquo's issue euer
-Reigne in this Kingdome?
-  All. Seeke to know no more
-
-   Macb. I will be satisfied. Deny me this,
-And an eternall Curse fall on you: Let me know.
-Why sinkes that Caldron? & what noise is this?
-
-Hoboyes
-
-  1 Shew
-
-   2 Shew
-
-   3 Shew
-
-   All. Shew his Eyes, and greeue his Hart,
-Come like shadowes, so depart.
-
-A shew of eight Kings, and Banquo last, with a glasse in his hand.
-
-  Macb. Thou art too like the Spirit of Banquo: Down:
-Thy Crowne do's seare mine Eye-bals. And thy haire
-Thou other Gold-bound-brow, is like the first:
-A third, is like the former. Filthy Hagges,
-Why do you shew me this? - A fourth? Start eyes!
-What will the Line stretch out to'th' cracke of Doome?
-Another yet? A seauenth? Ile see no more:
-And yet the eighth appeares, who beares a glasse,
-Which shewes me many more: and some I see,
-That two-fold Balles, and trebble Scepters carry.
-Horrible sight: Now I see 'tis true,
-For the Blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles vpon me,
-And points at them for his. What? is this so?
-  1 I Sir, all this is so. But why
-Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
-Come Sisters, cheere we vp his sprights,
-And shew the best of our delights.
-Ile Charme the Ayre to giue a sound,
-While you performe your Antique round:
-That this great King may kindly say,
-Our duties, did his welcome pay.
-
-Musicke. The Witches Dance, and vanish.
-
-  Macb. Where are they? Gone?
-Let this pernitious houre,
-Stand aye accursed in the Kalender.
-Come in, without there.
-Enter Lenox.
-
-  Lenox. What's your Graces will
-
-   Macb. Saw you the Weyard Sisters?
-  Lenox. No my Lord
-
-   Macb. Came they not by you?
-  Lenox. No indeed my Lord
-
-   Macb. Infected be the Ayre whereon they ride,
-And damn'd all those that trust them. I did heare
-The gallopping of Horse. Who was't came by?
-  Len. 'Tis two or three my Lord, that bring you word:
-Macduff is fled to England
-
-   Macb. Fled to England?
-  Len. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
-The flighty purpose neuer is o're-tooke
-Vnlesse the deed go with it. From this moment,
-The very firstlings of my heart shall be
-The firstlings of my hand. And euen now
-To Crown my thoughts with Acts: be it thoght & done:
-The Castle of Macduff, I will surprize.
-Seize vpon Fife; giue to th' edge o'th' Sword
-His Wife, his Babes, and all vnfortunate Soules
-That trace him in his Line. No boasting like a Foole,
-This deed Ile do, before this purpose coole,
-But no more sights. Where are these Gentlemen?
-Come bring me where they are.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macduffes Wife, her Son, and Rosse.
-
-  Wife. What had he done, to make him fly the Land?
-  Rosse. You must haue patience Madam
-
-   Wife. He had none:
-His flight was madnesse: when our Actions do not,
-Our feares do make vs Traitors
-
-   Rosse. You know not
-Whether it was his wisedome, or his feare
-
-   Wife. Wisedom? to leaue his wife, to leaue his Babes,
-His Mansion, and his Titles, in a place
-From whence himselfe do's flye? He loues vs not,
-He wants the naturall touch. For the poore Wren
-(The most diminitiue of Birds) will fight,
-Her yong ones in her Nest, against the Owle:
-All is the Feare, and nothing is the Loue;
-As little is the Wisedome, where the flight
-So runnes against all reason
-
-   Rosse. My deerest Cooz,
-I pray you schoole your selfe. But for your Husband,
-He is Noble, Wise, Iudicious, and best knowes
-The fits o'th' Season. I dare not speake much further,
-But cruell are the times, when we are Traitors
-And do not know our selues: when we hold Rumor
-From what we feare, yet know not what we feare,
-But floate vpon a wilde and violent Sea
-Each way, and moue. I take my leaue of you:
-Shall not be long but Ile be heere againe:
-Things at the worst will cease, or else climbe vpward,
-To what they were before. My pretty Cosine,
-Blessing vpon you
-
-   Wife. Father'd he is,
-And yet hee's Father-lesse
-
-   Rosse. I am so much a Foole, should I stay longer
-It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort.
-I take my leaue at once.
-
-Exit Rosse.
-
-  Wife. Sirra, your Fathers dead,
-And what will you do now? How will you liue?
-  Son. As Birds do Mother
-
-   Wife. What with Wormes, and Flyes?
-  Son. With what I get I meane, and so do they
-
-   Wife. Poore Bird,
-Thou'dst neuer Feare the Net, nor Lime,
-The Pitfall, nor the Gin
-
-   Son. Why should I Mother?
-Poore Birds they are not set for:
-My Father is not dead for all your saying
-
-   Wife. Yes, he is dead:
-How wilt thou do for a Father?
-  Son. Nay how will you do for a Husband?
-  Wife. Why I can buy me twenty at any Market
-
-   Son. Then you'l by 'em to sell againe
-
-   Wife. Thou speak'st withall thy wit,
-And yet I'faith with wit enough for thee
-
-   Son. Was my Father a Traitor, Mother?
-  Wife. I, that he was
-
-   Son. What is a Traitor?
-  Wife. Why one that sweares, and lyes
-
-   Son. And be all Traitors, that do so
-
-   Wife. Euery one that do's so, is a Traitor,
-And must be hang'd
-
-   Son. And must they all be hang'd, that swear and lye?
-  Wife. Euery one
-
-   Son. Who must hang them?
-  Wife. Why, the honest men
-
-   Son. Then the Liars and Swearers are Fools: for there
-are Lyars and Swearers enow, to beate the honest men,
-and hang vp them
-
-   Wife. Now God helpe thee, poore Monkie:
-But how wilt thou do for a Father?
-  Son. If he were dead, youl'd weepe for him: if you
-would not, it were a good signe, that I should quickely
-haue a new Father
-
-   Wife. Poore pratler, how thou talk'st?
-Enter a Messenger.
-
-  Mes. Blesse you faire Dame: I am not to you known,
-Though in your state of Honor I am perfect;
-I doubt some danger do's approach you neerely.
-If you will take a homely mans aduice,
-Be not

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-111|John Doe
-222|Jane Doe
-333|Someone Else
-444|Has No Orders
\ No newline at end of file

[12/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

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-***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
-********************The Tragedie of Macbeth*********************
-
-This is our 3rd edition of most of these plays.  See the index.
-
-
-Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
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-The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-by William Shakespeare
-
-July, 2000  [Etext #2264]
-
-
-***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
-********************The Tragedie of Macbeth*********************
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-
-
-Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-
-
-
-
-Executive Director's Notes:
-
-In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think all
-the spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time have
-been corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as they
-are presented herein:
-
-  Barnardo. Who's there?
-  Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold
-your selfe
-
-   Bar. Long liue the King
-
-***
-
-As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words
-or letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . .this is the
-original meaning of the term cliche. . .and thus, being unwilling
-to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions
-that look very odd. . .such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,
-above. . .and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming
-Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . .
-
-The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a
-time when they were out of "v"'s. . .possibly having used "vv" in
-place of some "w"'s, etc.  This was a common practice of the day,
-as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend
-more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
-
-You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I
-have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an
-extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a
-very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare.  My father read an
-assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University
-in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the
-purpose.  To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available
-. . .in great detail. . .and determined from the various changes,
-that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a
-variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous
-for signing his name with several different spellings.
-
-So, please take this into account when reading the comments below
-made by our volunteer who prepared this file:  you may see errors
-that are "not" errors. . . .
-
-So. . .with this caveat. . .we have NOT changed the canon errors,
-here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie 
-of Macbeth.
-
-Michael S. Hart
-Project Gutenberg
-Executive Director
-
-
-***
-
-
-Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't.  This was taken from
-a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can
-come in ASCII to the printed text.
-
-The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the
-conjoined ae have been changed to ae.  I have left the spelling,
-punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the
-printed text.  I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put
-together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the
-Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified
-spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded
-abbreviations as I have come across them.  Everything within
-brackets [] is what I have added.  So if you don't like that
-you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a
-purer Shakespeare.
-
-Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual
-differences between various copies of the first folio.  So there may
-be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between
-this and other first folio editions.  This is due to the printer's
-habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and
-then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then
-continuing the printing run.  The proof run wasn't thrown away but
-incorporated into the printed copies.  This is just the way it is.
-The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different
-First Folio editions' best pages.
-
-If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuation
-errors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feel
-free to email me those errors.  I wish to make this the best
-etext possible.  My email address for right now are haradda@aol.com
-and davidr@inconnect.com.  I hope that you enjoy this.
-
-David Reed
-
-The Tragedie of Macbeth
-
-Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
-
-Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.
-
-  1. When shall we three meet againe?
-In Thunder, Lightning, or in Raine?
-  2. When the Hurley-burley's done,
-When the Battaile's lost, and wonne
-
-   3. That will be ere the set of Sunne
-
-   1. Where the place?
-  2. Vpon the Heath
-
-   3. There to meet with Macbeth
-
-   1. I come, Gray-Malkin
-
-   All. Padock calls anon: faire is foule, and foule is faire,
-Houer through the fogge and filthie ayre.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Alarum within. Enter King Malcome, Donalbaine, Lenox, with
-attendants,
-meeting a bleeding Captaine.
-
-  King. What bloody man is that? he can report,
-As seemeth by his plight, of the Reuolt
-The newest state
-
-   Mal. This is the Serieant,
-Who like a good and hardie Souldier fought
-'Gainst my Captiuitie: Haile braue friend;
-Say to the King, the knowledge of the Broyle,
-As thou didst leaue it
-
-   Cap. Doubtfull it stood,
-As two spent Swimmers, that doe cling together,
-And choake their Art: The mercilesse Macdonwald
-(Worthie to be a Rebell, for to that
-The multiplying Villanies of Nature
-Doe swarme vpon him) from the Westerne Isles
-Of Kernes and Gallowgrosses is supply'd,
-And Fortune on his damned Quarry smiling,
-Shew'd like a Rebells Whore: but all's too weake:
-For braue Macbeth (well hee deserues that Name)
-Disdayning Fortune, with his brandisht Steele,
-Which smoak'd with bloody execution
-(Like Valours Minion) caru'd out his passage,
-Till hee fac'd the Slaue:
-Which neu'r shooke hands, nor bad farwell to him,
-Till he vnseam'd him from the Naue toth' Chops,
-And fix'd his Head vpon our Battlements
-
-   King. O valiant Cousin, worthy Gentleman
-
-   Cap. As whence the Sunne 'gins his reflection,
-Shipwracking Stormes, and direfull Thunders:
-So from that Spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,
-Discomfort swells: Marke King of Scotland, marke,
-No sooner Iustice had, with Valour arm'd,
-Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their heeles,
-But the Norweyan Lord, surueying vantage,
-With furbusht Armes, and new supplyes of men,
-Began a fresh assault
-
-   King. Dismay'd not this our Captaines, Macbeth and
-Banquoh?
-  Cap. Yes, as Sparrowes, Eagles;
-Or the Hare, the Lyon:
-If I say sooth, I must report they were
-As Cannons ouer-charg'd with double Cracks,
-So they doubly redoubled stroakes vpon the Foe:
-Except they meant to bathe in reeking Wounds,
-Or memorize another Golgotha,
-I cannot tell: but I am faint,
-My Gashes cry for helpe
-
-   King. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds,
-They smack of Honor both: Goe get him Surgeons.
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-Who comes here?
-  Mal. The worthy Thane of Rosse
-
-   Lenox. What a haste lookes through his eyes?
-So should he looke, that seemes to speake things strange
-
-   Rosse. God saue the King
-
-   King. Whence cam'st thou, worthy Thane?
-  Rosse. From Fiffe, great King,
-Where the Norweyan Banners flowt the Skie,
-And fanne our people cold.
-Norway himselfe, with terrible numbers,
-Assisted by that most disloyall Traytor,
-The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismall Conflict,
-Till that Bellona's Bridegroome, lapt in proofe,
-Confronted him with selfe-comparisons,
-Point against Point, rebellious Arme 'gainst Arme,
-Curbing his lauish spirit: and to conclude,
-The Victorie fell on vs
-
-   King. Great happinesse
-
-   Rosse. That now Sweno, the Norwayes King,
-Craues composition:
-Nor would we deigne him buriall of his men,
-Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes ynch,
-Ten thousand Dollars, to our generall vse
-
-   King. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceiue
-Our Bosome interest: Goe pronounce his present death,
-And with his former Title greet Macbeth
-
-   Rosse. Ile see it done
-
-   King. What he hath lost, Noble Macbeth hath wonne.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1. Where hast thou beene, Sister?
-  2. Killing Swine
-
-   3. Sister, where thou?
-  1. A Saylors Wife had Chestnuts in her Lappe,
-And mouncht, & mouncht, and mouncht:
-Giue me, quoth I.
-Aroynt thee, Witch, the rumpe-fed Ronyon cryes.
-Her Husband's to Aleppo gone, Master o'th' Tiger:
-But in a Syue Ile thither sayle,
-And like a Rat without a tayle,
-Ile doe, Ile doe, and Ile doe
-
-   2. Ile giue thee a Winde
-
-   1. Th'art kinde
-
-   3. And I another
-
-   1. I my selfe haue all the other,
-And the very Ports they blow,
-All the Quarters that they know,
-I'th' Ship-mans Card.
-Ile dreyne him drie as Hay:
-Sleepe shall neyther Night nor Day
-Hang vpon his Pent-house Lid:
-He shall liue a man forbid:
-Wearie Seu'nights, nine times nine,
-Shall he dwindle, peake, and pine:
-Though his Barke cannot be lost,
-Yet it shall be Tempest-tost.
-Looke what I haue
-
-   2. Shew me, shew me
-
-   1. Here I haue a Pilots Thumbe,
-Wrackt, as homeward he did come.
-
-Drum within.
-
-  3. A Drumme, a Drumme:
-Macbeth doth come
-
-   All. The weyward Sisters, hand in hand,
-Posters of the Sea and Land,
-Thus doe goe, about, about,
-Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
-And thrice againe, to make vp nine.
-Peace, the Charme's wound vp.
-Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
-
-  Macb. So foule and faire a day I haue not seene
-
-   Banquo. How farre is't call'd to Soris? What are these,
-So wither'd, and so wilde in their attyre,
-That looke not like th' Inhabitants o'th' Earth,
-And yet are on't? Liue you, or are you aught
-That man may question? you seeme to vnderstand me,
-By each at once her choppie finger laying
-Vpon her skinnie Lips: you should be Women,
-And yet your Beards forbid me to interprete
-That you are so
-
-   Mac. Speake if you can: what are you?
-  1. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Glamis
-
-   2. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Cawdor
-
-   3. All haile Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter
-
-   Banq. Good Sir, why doe you start, and seeme to feare
-Things that doe sound so faire? i'th' name of truth
-Are ye fantasticall, or that indeed
-Which outwardly ye shew? My Noble Partner
-You greet with present Grace, and great prediction
-Of Noble hauing, and of Royall hope,
-That he seemes wrapt withall: to me you speake not.
-If you can looke into the Seedes of Time,
-And say, which Graine will grow, and which will not,
-Speake then to me, who neyther begge, nor feare
-Your fauors, nor your hate
-
-   1. Hayle
-
-   2. Hayle
-
-   3. Hayle
-
-   1. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater
-
-   2. Not so happy, yet much happyer
-
-   3. Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none:
-So all haile Macbeth, and Banquo
-
-   1. Banquo, and Macbeth, all haile
-
-   Macb. Stay you imperfect Speakers, tell me more:
-By Sinells death, I know I am Thane of Glamis,
-But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor liues
-A prosperous Gentleman: And to be King,
-Stands not within the prospect of beleefe,
-No more then to be Cawdor. Say from whence
-You owe this strange Intelligence, or why
-Vpon this blasted Heath you stop our way
-With such Prophetique greeting?
-Speake, I charge you.
-
-Witches vanish.
-
-  Banq. The Earth hath bubbles, as the Water ha's,
-And these are of them: whither are they vanish'd?
-  Macb. Into the Ayre: and what seem'd corporall,
-Melted, as breath into the Winde.
-Would they had stay'd
-
-   Banq. Were such things here, as we doe speake about?
-Or haue we eaten on the insane Root,
-That takes the Reason Prisoner?
-  Macb. Your Children shall be Kings
-
-   Banq. You shall be King
-
-   Macb. And Thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?
-  Banq. Toth' selfe-same tune and words: who's here?
-Enter Rosse and Angus.
-
-  Rosse. The King hath happily receiu'd, Macbeth,
-The newes of thy successe: and when he reades
-Thy personall Venture in the Rebels sight,
-His Wonders and his Prayses doe contend,
-Which should be thine, or his: silenc'd with that,
-In viewing o're the rest o'th' selfe-same day,
-He findes thee in the stout Norweyan Rankes,
-Nothing afeard of what thy selfe didst make
-Strange Images of death, as thick as Tale
-Can post with post, and euery one did beare
-Thy prayses in his Kingdomes great defence,
-And powr'd them downe before him
-
-   Ang. Wee are sent,
-To giue thee from our Royall Master thanks,
-Onely to harrold thee into his sight,
-Not pay thee
-
-   Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater Honor,
-He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:
-In which addition, haile most worthy Thane,
-For it is thine
-
-   Banq. What, can the Deuill speake true?
-  Macb. The Thane of Cawdor liues:
-Why doe you dresse me in borrowed Robes?
-  Ang. Who was the Thane, liues yet,
-But vnder heauie Iudgement beares that Life,
-Which he deserues to loose.
-Whether he was combin'd with those of Norway,
-Or did lyne the Rebell with hidden helpe,
-And vantage; or that with both he labour'd
-In his Countreyes wracke, I know not:
-But Treasons Capitall, confess'd, and prou'd,
-Haue ouerthrowne him
-
-   Macb. Glamys, and Thane of Cawdor:
-The greatest is behinde. Thankes for your paines.
-Doe you not hope your Children shall be Kings,
-When those that gaue the Thane of Cawdor to me,
-Promis'd no lesse to them
-
-   Banq. That trusted home,
-Might yet enkindle you vnto the Crowne,
-Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:
-And oftentimes, to winne vs to our harme,
-The Instruments of Darknesse tell vs Truths,
-Winne vs with honest Trifles, to betray's
-In deepest consequence.
-Cousins, a word, I pray you
-
-   Macb. Two Truths are told,
-As happy Prologues to the swelling Act
-Of the Imperiall Theame. I thanke you Gentlemen:
-This supernaturall solliciting
-Cannot be ill; cannot be good.
-If ill? why hath it giuen me earnest of successe,
-Commencing in a Truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
-If good? why doe I yeeld to that suggestion,
-Whose horrid Image doth vnfixe my Heire,
-And make my seated Heart knock at my Ribbes,
-Against the vse of Nature? Present Feares
-Are lesse then horrible Imaginings:
-My Thought, whose Murther yet is but fantasticall,
-Shakes so my single state of Man,
-That Function is smother'd in surmise,
-And nothing is, but what is not
-
-   Banq. Looke how our Partner's rapt
-
-   Macb. If Chance will haue me King,
-Why Chance may Crowne me,
-Without my stirre
-
-   Banq. New Honors come vpon him
-Like our strange Garments, cleaue not to their mould,
-But with the aid of vse
-
-   Macb. Come what come may,
-Time, and the Houre, runs through the roughest Day
-
-   Banq. Worthy Macbeth, wee stay vpon your leysure
-
-   Macb. Giue me your fauour:
-My dull Braine was wrought with things forgotten.
-Kinde Gentlemen, your paines are registred,
-Where euery day I turne the Leafe,
-To reade them.
-Let vs toward the King: thinke vpon
-What hath chanc'd: and at more time,
-The Interim hauing weigh'd it, let vs speake
-Our free Hearts each to other
-
-   Banq. Very gladly
-
-   Macb. Till then enough:
-Come friends.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Flourish. Enter King, Lenox, Malcolme, Donalbaine, and
-Attendants.
-
-  King. Is execution done on Cawdor?
-Or not those in Commission yet return'd?
-  Mal. My Liege, they are not yet come back.
-But I haue spoke with one that saw him die:
-Who did report, that very frankly hee
-Confess'd his Treasons, implor'd your Highnesse Pardon,
-And set forth a deepe Repentance:
-Nothing in his Life became him,
-Like the leauing it. Hee dy'de,
-As one that had beene studied in his death,
-To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,
-As 'twere a carelesse Trifle
-
-   King. There's no Art,
-To finde the Mindes construction in the Face.
-He was a Gentleman, on whom I built
-An absolute Trust.
-Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Rosse, and Angus.
-
-O worthyest Cousin,
-The sinne of my Ingratitude euen now
-Was heauie on me. Thou art so farre before,
-That swiftest Wing of Recompence is slow,
-To ouertake thee. Would thou hadst lesse deseru'd,
-That the proportion both of thanks, and payment,
-Might haue beene mine: onely I haue left to say,
-More is thy due, then more then all can pay
-
-   Macb. The seruice, and the loyaltie I owe,
-In doing it, payes it selfe.
-Your Highnesse part, is to receiue our Duties:
-And our Duties are to your Throne, and State,
-Children, and Seruants; which doe but what they should,
-By doing euery thing safe toward your Loue
-And Honor
-
-   King. Welcome hither:
-I haue begun to plant thee, and will labour
-To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
-That hast no lesse deseru'd, nor must be knowne
-No lesse to haue done so: Let me enfold thee,
-And hold thee to my Heart
-
-   Banq. There if I grow,
-The Haruest is your owne
-
-   King. My plenteous Ioyes,
-Wanton in fulnesse, seeke to hide themselues
-In drops of sorrow. Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,
-And you whose places are the nearest, know,
-We will establish our Estate vpon
-Our eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,
-The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor must
-Not vnaccompanied, inuest him onely,
-But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shine
-On all deseruers. From hence to Envernes,
-And binde vs further to you
-
-   Macb. The Rest is Labor, which is not vs'd for you:
-Ile be my selfe the Herbenger, and make ioyfull
-The hearing of my Wife, with your approach:
-So humbly take my leaue
-
-   King. My worthy Cawdor
-
-   Macb. The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step,
-On which I must fall downe, or else o're-leape,
-For in my way it lyes. Starres hide your fires,
-Let not Light see my black and deepe desires:
-The Eye winke at the Hand: yet let that bee,
-Which the Eye feares, when it is done to see.
-Enter.
-
-  King. True worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,
-And in his commendations, I am fed:
-It is a Banquet to me. Let's after him,
-Whose care is gone before, to bid vs welcome:
-It is a peerelesse Kinsman.
-
-Flourish. Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Enter Macbeths Wife alone with a Letter.
-
-  Lady. They met me in the day of successe: and I haue
-learn'd by the perfect'st report, they haue more in them, then
-mortall knowledge. When I burnt in desire to question them
-further, they made themselues Ayre, into which they vanish'd.
-Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missiues from
-the King, who all-hail'd me Thane of Cawdor, by which Title
-before, these weyward Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me to
-the comming on of time, with haile King that shalt be. This
-haue I thought good to deliuer thee (my dearest Partner of
-Greatnesse) that thou might'st not loose the dues of reioycing
-by being ignorant of what Greatnesse is promis'd thee. Lay
-it to thy heart and farewell.
-Glamys thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
-What thou art promis'd: yet doe I feare thy Nature,
-It is too full o'th' Milke of humane kindnesse,
-To catch the neerest way. Thou would'st be great,
-Art not without Ambition, but without
-The illnesse should attend it. What thou would'st highly,
-That would'st thou holily: would'st not play false,
-And yet would'st wrongly winne.
-Thould'st haue, great Glamys, that which cryes,
-Thus thou must doe, if thou haue it;
-And that which rather thou do'st feare to doe,
-Then wishest should be vndone. High thee hither,
-That I may powre my Spirits in thine Eare,
-And chastise with the valour of my Tongue
-All that impeides thee from the Golden Round,
-Which Fate and Metaphysicall ayde doth seeme
-To haue thee crown'd withall.
-Enter Messenger.
-
-What is your tidings?
-  Mess. The King comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it.
-Is not thy Master with him? who, wer't so,
-Would haue inform'd for preparation
-
-   Mess. So please you, it is true: our Thane is comming:
-One of my fellowes had the speed of him;
-Who almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
-Then would make vp his Message
-
-   Lady. Giue him tending,
-He brings great newes,
-
-Exit Messenger.
-
-The Rauen himselfe is hoarse,
-That croakes the fatall entrance of Duncan
-Vnder my Battlements. Come you Spirits,
-That tend on mortall thoughts, vnsex me here,
-And fill me from the Crowne to the Toe, top-full
-Of direst Crueltie: make thick my blood,
-Stop vp th' accesse, and passage to Remorse,
-That no compunctious visitings of Nature
-Shake my fell purpose, nor keepe peace betweene
-Th' effect, and hit. Come to my Womans Brests,
-And take my Milke for Gall, you murth'ring Ministers,
-Where-euer, in your sightlesse substances,
-You wait on Natures Mischiefe. Come thick Night,
-And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell,
-
-That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes,
-Nor Heauen peepe through the Blanket of the darke,
-To cry, hold, hold.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-Great Glamys, worthy Cawdor,
-Greater then both, by the all-haile hereafter,
-Thy Letters haue transported me beyond
-This ignorant present, and I feele now
-The future in the instant
-
-   Macb. My dearest Loue,
-Duncan comes here to Night
-
-   Lady. And when goes hence?
-  Macb. To morrow, as he purposes
-
-   Lady. O neuer,
-Shall Sunne that Morrow see.
-Your Face, my Thane, is as a Booke, where men
-May reade strange matters, to beguile the time.
-Looke like the time, beare welcome in your Eye,
-Your Hand, your Tongue: looke like th' innocent flower,
-But be the Serpent vnder't. He that's comming,
-Must be prouided for: and you shall put
-This Nights great Businesse into my dispatch,
-Which shall to all our Nights, and Dayes to come,
-Giue solely soueraigne sway, and Masterdome
-
-   Macb. We will speake further,
-  Lady. Onely looke vp cleare:
-To alter fauor, euer is to feare:
-Leaue all the rest to me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Sexta.
-
-Hoboyes, and Torches. Enter King, Malcolme, Donalbaine,
-Banquo, Lenox,
-Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and Attendants.
-
-  King. This Castle hath a pleasant seat,
-The ayre nimbly and sweetly recommends it selfe
-Vnto our gentle sences
-
-   Banq. This Guest of Summer,
-The Temple-haunting Barlet does approue,
-By his loued Mansonry, that the Heauens breath
-Smells wooingly here: no Iutty frieze,
-Buttrice, nor Coigne of Vantage, but this Bird
-Hath made his pendant Bed, and procreant Cradle,
-Where they must breed, and haunt: I haue obseru'd
-The ayre is delicate.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  King. See, see our honor'd Hostesse:
-The Loue that followes vs, sometime is our trouble,
-Which still we thanke as Loue. Herein I teach you,
-How you shall bid God-eyld vs for your paines,
-And thanke vs for your trouble
-
-   Lady. All our seruice,
-In euery point twice done, and then done double,
-Were poore, and single Businesse, to contend
-Against those Honors deepe, and broad,
-Wherewith your Maiestie loades our House:
-For those of old, and the late Dignities,
-Heap'd vp to them, we rest your Ermites
-
-   King. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
-We courst him at the heeles, and had a purpose
-To be his Purueyor: But he rides well,
-And his great Loue (sharpe as his Spurre) hath holp him
-To his home before vs: Faire and Noble Hostesse
-We are your guest to night
-
-   La. Your Seruants euer,
-Haue theirs, themselues, and what is theirs in compt,
-To make their Audit at your Highnesse pleasure,
-Still to returne your owne
-
-   King. Giue me your hand:
-Conduct me to mine Host we loue him highly,
-And shall continue, our Graces towards him.
-By your leaue Hostesse.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Septima.
-
-Hoboyes. Torches. Enter a Sewer, and diuers Seruants with Dishes
-and
-Seruice ouer the Stage. Then enter Macbeth
-
-   Macb. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twer well,
-It were done quickly: If th' Assassination
-Could trammell vp the Consequence, and catch
-With his surcease, Successe: that but this blow
-Might be the be all, and the end all. Heere,
-But heere, vpon this Banke and Schoole of time,
-Wee'ld iumpe the life to come. But in these Cases,
-We still haue iudgement heere, that we but teach
-Bloody Instructions, which being taught, returne
-To plague th' Inuenter, this euen-handed Iustice
-Commends th' Ingredience of our poyson'd Challice
-To our owne lips. Hee's heere in double trust;
-First, as I am his Kinsman, and his Subiect,
-Strong both against the Deed: Then, as his Host,
-Who should against his Murtherer shut the doore,
-Not beare the knife my selfe. Besides, this Duncane
-Hath borne his Faculties so meeke; hath bin
-So cleere in his great Office, that his Vertues
-Will pleade like Angels, Trumpet-tongu'd against
-The deepe damnation of his taking off:
-And Pitty, like a naked New-borne-Babe,
-Striding the blast, or Heauens Cherubin, hors'd
-Vpon the sightlesse Curriors of the Ayre,
-Shall blow the horrid deed in euery eye,
-That teares shall drowne the winde. I haue no Spurre
-To pricke the sides of my intent, but onely
-Vaulting Ambition, which ore-leapes it selfe,
-And falles on th' other.
-Enter Lady.
-
-How now? What Newes?
-  La. He has almost supt: why haue you left the chamber?
-  Mac. Hath he ask'd for me?
-  La. Know you not, he ha's?
-  Mac. We will proceed no further in this Businesse:
-He hath Honour'd me of late, and I haue bought
-Golden Opinions from all sorts of people,
-Which would be worne now in their newest glosse,
-Not cast aside so soone
-
-   La. Was the hope drunke,
-Wherein you drest your selfe? Hath it slept since?
-And wakes it now to looke so greene, and pale,
-At what it did so freely? From this time,
-Such I account thy loue. Art thou affear'd
-To be the same in thine owne Act, and Valour,
-As thou art in desire? Would'st thou haue that
-Which thou esteem'st the Ornament of Life,
-And liue a Coward in thine owne Esteeme?
-Letting I dare not, wait vpon I would,
-Like the poore Cat i'th' Addage
-
-   Macb. Prythee peace:
-I dare do all that may become a man,
-Who dares do more, is none
-
-   La. What Beast was't then
-That made you breake this enterprize to me?
-When you durst do it, then you were a man:
-And to be more then what you were, you would
-Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place
-Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
-They haue made themselues, and that their fitnesse now
-Do's vnmake you. I haue giuen Sucke, and know
-How tender 'tis to loue the Babe that milkes me,
-I would, while it was smyling in my Face,
-Haue pluckt my Nipple from his Bonelesse Gummes,
-And dasht the Braines out, had I so sworne
-As you haue done to this
-
-   Macb. If we should faile?
-  Lady. We faile?
-But screw your courage to the sticking place,
-And wee'le not fayle: when Duncan is asleepe,
-(Whereto the rather shall his dayes hard Iourney
-Soundly inuite him) his two Chamberlaines
-Will I with Wine, and Wassell, so conuince,
-That Memorie, the Warder of the Braine,
-Shall be a Fume, and the Receit of Reason
-A Lymbeck onely: when in Swinish sleepe,
-Their drenched Natures lyes as in a Death,
-What cannot you and I performe vpon
-Th' vnguarded Duncan? What not put vpon
-His spungie Officers? who shall beare the guilt
-Of our great quell
-
-   Macb. Bring forth Men-Children onely:
-For thy vndaunted Mettle should compose
-Nothing but Males. Will it not be receiu'd,
-When we haue mark'd with blood those sleepie two
-Of his owne Chamber, and vs'd their very Daggers,
-That they haue don't?
-  Lady. Who dares receiue it other,
-As we shall make our Griefes and Clamor rore,
-Vpon his Death?
-  Macb. I am settled, and bend vp
-Each corporall Agent to this terrible Feat.
-Away, and mock the time with fairest show,
-False Face must hide what the false Heart doth know.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo, and Fleance, with a Torch before him.
-
-  Banq. How goes the Night, Boy?
-  Fleance. The Moone is downe: I haue not heard the
-Clock
-
-   Banq. And she goes downe at Twelue
-
-   Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir
-
-   Banq. Hold, take my Sword:
-There's Husbandry in Heauen,
-Their Candles are all out: take thee that too.
-A heauie Summons lyes like Lead vpon me,
-And yet I would not sleepe:
-Mercifull Powers, restraine in me the cursed thoughts
-That Nature giues way to in repose.
-Enter Macbeth, and a Seruant with a Torch.
-
-Giue me my Sword: who's there?
-  Macb. A Friend
-
-   Banq. What Sir, not yet at rest? the King's a bed.
-He hath beene in vnusuall Pleasure,
-And sent forth great Largesse to your Offices.
-This Diamond he greetes your Wife withall,
-By the name of most kind Hostesse,
-And shut vp in measurelesse content
-
-   Mac. Being vnprepar'd,
-Our will became the seruant to defect,
-Which else should free haue wrought
-
-   Banq. All's well.
-I dreamt last Night of the three weyward Sisters:
-To you they haue shew'd some truth
-
-   Macb. I thinke not of them:
-Yet when we can entreat an houre to serue,
-We would spend it in some words vpon that Businesse,
-If you would graunt the time
-
-   Banq. At your kind'st leysure
-
-   Macb. If you shall cleaue to my consent,
-When 'tis, it shall make Honor for you
-
-   Banq. So I lose none,
-In seeking to augment it, but still keepe
-My Bosome franchis'd, and Allegeance cleare,
-I shall be counsail'd
-
-   Macb. Good repose the while
-
-   Banq. Thankes Sir: the like to you.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-  Macb. Goe bid thy Mistresse, when my drinke is ready,
-She strike vpon the Bell. Get thee to bed.
-Enter.
-
-Is this a Dagger, which I see before me,
-The Handle toward my Hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
-I haue thee not, and yet I see thee still.
-Art thou not fatall Vision, sensible
-To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
-A Dagger of the Minde, a false Creation,
-Proceeding from the heat-oppressed Braine?
-I see thee yet, in forme as palpable,
-As this which now I draw.
-Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
-And such an Instrument I was to vse.
-Mine Eyes are made the fooles o'th' other Sences,
-Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
-And on thy Blade, and Dudgeon, Gouts of Blood,
-Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
-It is the bloody Businesse, which informes
-Thus to mine Eyes. Now o're the one halfe World
-Nature seemes dead, and wicked Dreames abuse
-The Curtain'd sleepe: Witchcraft celebrates
-Pale Heccats Offrings: and wither'd Murther,
-Alarum'd by his Centinell, the Wolfe,
-Whose howle's his Watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
-With Tarquins rauishing sides, towards his designe
-Moues like a Ghost. Thou sowre and firme-set Earth
-Heare not my steps, which they may walke, for feare
-Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
-And take the present horror from the time,
-Which now sutes with it. Whiles I threat, he liues:
-Words to the heat of deedes too cold breath giues.
-
-A Bell rings.
-
-I goe, and it is done: the Bell inuites me.
-Heare it not, Duncan, for it is a Knell,
-That summons thee to Heauen, or to Hell.
-Enter.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Lady.
-
-  La. That which hath made the[m] drunk, hath made me bold:
-What hath quench'd them, hath giuen me fire.
-Hearke, peace: it was the Owle that shriek'd,
-The fatall Bell-man, which giues the stern'st good-night.
-He is about it, the Doores are open:
-And the surfeted Groomes doe mock their charge
-With Snores. I haue drugg'd their Possets,
-That Death and Nature doe contend about them,
-Whether they liue, or dye.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. Who's there? what hoa?
-  Lady. Alack, I am afraid they haue awak'd,
-And 'tis not done: th' attempt, and not the deed,
-Confounds vs: hearke: I lay'd their Daggers ready,
-He could not misse 'em. Had he not resembled
-My Father as he slept, I had don't.
-My Husband?
-  Macb. I haue done the deed:
-Didst thou not heare a noyse?
-  Lady. I heard the Owle schreame, and the Crickets cry.
-Did not you speake?
-  Macb. When?
-  Lady. Now
-
-   Macb. As I descended?
-  Lady. I
-
-   Macb. Hearke, who lyes i'th' second Chamber?
-  Lady. Donalbaine
-
-   Mac. This is a sorry sight
-
-   Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight
-
-   Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleepe,
-And one cry'd Murther, that they did wake each other:
-I stood, and heard them: But they did say their Prayers,
-And addrest them againe to sleepe
-
-   Lady. There are two lodg'd together
-
-   Macb. One cry'd God blesse vs, and Amen the other,
-As they had seene me with these Hangmans hands:
-Listning their feare, I could not say Amen,
-When they did say God blesse vs
-
-   Lady. Consider it not so deepely
-
-   Mac. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen?
-I had most need of Blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat
-
-   Lady. These deeds must not be thought
-After these wayes: so, it will make vs mad
-
-   Macb. Me thought I heard a voyce cry, Sleep no more:
-Macbeth does murther Sleepe, the innocent Sleepe,
-Sleepe that knits vp the rauel'd Sleeue of Care,
-The death of each dayes Life, sore Labors Bath,
-Balme of hurt Mindes, great Natures second Course,
-Chiefe nourisher in Life's Feast
-
-   Lady. What doe you meane?
-  Macb. Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the House:
-Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and therefore Cawdor
-Shall sleepe no more: Macbeth shall sleepe no more
-
-   Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why worthy Thane,
-You doe vnbend your Noble strength, to thinke
-So braine-sickly of things: Goe get some Water,
-And wash this filthie Witnesse from your Hand.
-Why did you bring these Daggers from the place?
-They must lye there: goe carry them, and smeare
-The sleepie Groomes with blood
-
-   Macb. Ile goe no more:
-I am afraid, to thinke what I haue done:
-Looke on't againe, I dare not
-
-   Lady. Infirme of purpose:
-Giue me the Daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
-Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Childhood,
-That feares a painted Deuill. If he doe bleed,
-Ile guild the Faces of the Groomes withall,
-For it must seeme their Guilt.
-Enter.
-
-Knocke within.
-
-  Macb. Whence is that knocking?
-How is't with me, when euery noyse appalls me?
-What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes.
-Will all great Neptunes Ocean wash this blood
-Cleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather
-The multitudinous Seas incarnardine,
-Making the Greene one, Red.
-Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. My Hands are of your colour: but I shame
-To weare a Heart so white.
-
-Knocke.
-
-I heare a knocking at the South entry:
-Retyre we to our Chamber:
-A little Water cleares vs of this deed.
-How easie is it then? your Constancie
-Hath left you vnattended.
-
-Knocke.
-
-Hearke, more knocking.
-Get on your Night-Gowne, least occasion call vs,
-And shew vs to be Watchers: be not lost
-So poorely in your thoughts
-
-   Macb. To know my deed,
-
-Knocke.
-
-'Twere best not know my selfe.
-Wake Duncan with thy knocking:
-I would thou could'st.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
-
-  Porter. Here's a knocking indeede: if a man were
-Porter of Hell Gate, hee should haue old turning the
-Key.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there
-i'th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hang'd
-himselfe on th' expectation of Plentie: Come in time, haue
-Napkins enow about you, here you'le sweat for't.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name?
-Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in both
-the Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treason
-enough for Gods sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen:
-oh come in, Equiuocator.
-
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an English
-Taylor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose:
-Come in Taylor, here you may rost your Goose.
-Knock.
-
-Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but this
-place is too cold for Hell. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further:
-I had thought to haue let in some of all Professions, that
-goe the Primrose way to th' euerlasting Bonfire.
-
-Knock.
-
-Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.
-Enter Macduff, and Lenox.
-
-  Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed,
-That you doe lye so late?
-  Port. Faith Sir, we were carowsing till the second Cock:
-And Drinke, Sir, is a great prouoker of three things
-
-   Macd. What three things does Drinke especially
-prouoke?
-  Port. Marry, Sir, Nose-painting, Sleepe, and Vrine.
-Lecherie, Sir, it prouokes, and vnprouokes: it prouokes
-the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore
-much Drinke may be said to be an Equiuocator with Lecherie:
-it makes him, and it marres him; it sets him on,
-and it takes him off; it perswades him, and dis-heartens
-him; makes him stand too, and not stand too: in conclusion,
-equiuocates him in a sleepe, and giuing him the Lye,
-leaues him
-
-   Macd. I beleeue, Drinke gaue thee the Lye last Night
-
-   Port. That it did, Sir, i'the very Throat on me: but I
-requited him for his Lye, and (I thinke) being too strong
-for him, though he tooke vp my Legges sometime, yet I
-made a Shift to cast him.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macd. Is thy Master stirring?
-Our knocking ha's awak'd him: here he comes
-
-   Lenox. Good morrow, Noble Sir
-
-   Macb. Good morrow both
-
-   Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?
-  Macb. Not yet
-
-   Macd. He did command me to call timely on him,
-I haue almost slipt the houre
-
-   Macb. Ile bring you to him
-
-   Macd. I know this is a ioyfull trouble to you:
-But yet 'tis one
-
-   Macb. The labour we delight in, Physicks paine:
-This is the Doore
-
-   Macd. Ile make so bold to call, for 'tis my limitted
-seruice.
-
-Exit Macduffe.
-
-  Lenox. Goes the King hence to day?
-  Macb. He does: he did appoint so
-
-   Lenox. The Night ha's been vnruly:
-Where we lay, our Chimneys were blowne downe,
-And (as they say) lamentings heard i'th' Ayre;
-Strange Schreemes of Death,
-And Prophecying, with Accents terrible,
-Of dyre Combustion, and confus'd Euents,
-New hatch'd toth' wofull time.
-The obscure Bird clamor'd the liue-long Night.
-Some say, the Earth was Feuorous,
-And did shake
-
-   Macb. 'Twas a rough Night
-
-   Lenox. My young remembrance cannot paralell
-A fellow to it.
-Enter Macduff.
-
-  Macd. O horror, horror, horror,
-Tongue nor Heart cannot conceiue, nor name thee
-
-   Macb. and Lenox. What's the matter?
-  Macd. Confusion now hath made his Master-peece:
-Most sacrilegious Murther hath broke ope
-The Lords anoynted Temple, and stole thence
-The Life o'th' Building
-
-   Macb. What is't you say, the Life?
-  Lenox. Meane you his Maiestie?
-  Macd. Approch the Chamber, and destroy your sight
-With a new Gorgon. Doe not bid me speake:
-See, and then speake your selues: awake, awake,
-
-Exeunt. Macbeth and Lenox.
-
-Ring the Alarum Bell: Murther, and Treason,
-Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolme awake,
-Shake off this Downey sleepe, Deaths counterfeit,
-And looke on Death it selfe: vp, vp, and see
-The great Doomes Image: Malcolme, Banquo,
-As from your Graues rise vp, and walke like Sprights,
-To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell.
-
-Bell rings. Enter Lady.
-
-  Lady. What's the Businesse?
-That such a hideous Trumpet calls to parley
-The sleepers of the House? speake, speake
-
-   Macd. O gentle Lady,
-'Tis not for you to heare what I can speake:
-The repetition in a Womans eare,
-Would murther as it fell.
-Enter Banquo.
-
-O Banquo, Banquo, Our Royall Master's murther'd
-
-   Lady. Woe, alas:
-What, in our House?
-  Ban. Too cruell, any where.
-Deare Duff, I prythee contradict thy selfe,
-And say, it is not so.
-Enter Macbeth, Lenox, and Rosse.
-
-  Macb. Had I but dy'd an houre before this chance,
-I had liu'd a blessed time: for from this instant,
-There's nothing serious in Mortalitie:
-All is but Toyes: Renowne and Grace is dead,
-The Wine of Life is drawne, and the meere Lees
-Is left this Vault, to brag of.
-Enter Malcolme and Donalbaine.
-
-  Donal. What is amisse?
-  Macb. You are, and doe not know't:
-The Spring, the Head, the Fountaine of your Blood
-Is stopt, the very Source of it is stopt
-
-   Macd. Your Royall Father's murther'd
-
-   Mal. Oh, by whom?
-  Lenox. Those of his Chamber, as it seem'd, had don't:
-Their Hands and Faces were all badg'd with blood,
-So were their Daggers, which vnwip'd, we found
-Vpon their Pillowes: they star'd, and were distracted,
-No mans Life was to be trusted with them
-
-   Macb. O, yet I doe repent me of my furie,
-That I did kill them
-
-   Macd. Wherefore did you so?
-  Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temp'rate, & furious,
-Loyall, and Neutrall, in a moment? No man:
-Th' expedition of my violent Loue
-Out-run the pawser, Reason. Here lay Duncan,
-His Siluer skinne, lac'd with His Golden Blood,
-And his gash'd Stabs, look'd like a Breach in Nature,
-For Ruines wastfull entrance: there the Murtherers,
-Steep'd in the Colours of their Trade; their Daggers
-Vnmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refraine,
-That had a heart to loue; and in that heart,
-Courage, to make's loue knowne?
-  Lady. Helpe me hence, hoa
-
-   Macd. Looke to the Lady
-
-   Mal. Why doe we hold our tongues,
-That most may clayme this argument for ours?
-  Donal. What should be spoken here,
-Where our Fate hid in an augure hole,
-May rush, and seize vs? Let's away,
-Our Teares are not yet brew'd
-
-   Mal. Nor our strong Sorrow
-Vpon the foot of Motion
-
-   Banq. Looke to the Lady:
-And when we haue our naked Frailties hid,
-That suffer in exposure; let vs meet,
-And question this most bloody piece of worke,
-To know it further. Feares and scruples shake vs:
-In the great Hand of God I stand, and thence,
-Against the vndivulg'd pretence, I fight
-Of Treasonous Mallice
-
-   Macd. And so doe I
-
-   All. So all
-
-   Macb. Let's briefely put on manly readinesse,
-And meet i'th' Hall together
-
-   All. Well contented.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-  Malc. What will you doe?
-Let's not consort with them:
-To shew an vnfelt Sorrow, is an Office
-Which the false man do's easie.
-Ile to England
-
-   Don. To Ireland, I:
-Our seperated fortune shall keepe vs both the safer:
-Where we are, there's Daggers in mens smiles;
-The neere in blood, the neerer bloody
-
-   Malc. This murtherous Shaft that's shot,
-Hath not yet lighted: and our safest way,
-Is to auoid the ayme. Therefore to Horse,
-And let vs not be daintie of leaue-taking,
-But shift away: there's warrant in that Theft,
-Which steales it selfe, when there's no mercie left.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-
-Scena Quarta.
-
-Enter Rosse, with an Old man.
-
-  Old man. Threescore and ten I can remember well,
-Within the Volume of which Time, I haue seene
-Houres dreadfull, and things strange: but this sore Night
-Hath trifled former knowings
-
-   Rosse. Ha, good Father,
-Thou seest the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act,
-Threatens his bloody Stage: byth' Clock 'tis Day,
-And yet darke Night strangles the trauailing Lampe:
-Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes shame,
-That Darknesse does the face of Earth intombe,
-When liuing Light should kisse it?
-  Old man. 'Tis vnnaturall,
-Euen like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last,
-A Faulcon towring in her pride of place,
-Was by a Mowsing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd
-
-   Rosse. And Duncans Horses,
-(A thing most strange, and certaine)
-Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race,
-Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their stalls, flong out,
-Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they would
-Make Warre with Mankinde
-
-   Old man. 'Tis said, they eate each other
-
-   Rosse. They did so:
-To th' amazement of mine eyes that look'd vpon't.
-Enter Macduffe.
-
-Heere comes the good Macduffe.
-How goes the world Sir, now?
-  Macd. Why see you not?
-  Ross. Is't known who did this more then bloody deed?
-  Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slaine
-
-   Ross. Alas the day,
-What good could they pretend?
-  Macd. They were subborned,
-Malcolme, and Donalbaine the Kings two Sonnes
-Are stolne away and fled, which puts vpon them
-Suspition of the deed
-
-   Rosse. 'Gainst Nature still,
-Thriftlesse Ambition, that will rauen vp
-Thine owne liues meanes: Then 'tis most like,
-The Soueraignty will fall vpon Macbeth
-
-   Macd. He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone
-To be inuested
-
-   Rosse. Where is Duncans body?
-  Macd. Carried to Colmekill,
-The Sacred Store-house of his Predecessors,
-And Guardian of their Bones
-
-   Rosse. Will you to Scone?
-  Macd. No Cosin, Ile to Fife
-
-   Rosse. Well, I will thither
-
-   Macd. Well may you see things wel done there: Adieu
-Least our old Robes sit easier then our new
-
-   Rosse. Farewell, Father
-
-   Old M. Gods benyson go with you, and with those
-That would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes.
-
-Exeunt. omnes
-
-Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
-
-Enter Banquo.
-
-  Banq. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
-As the weyard Women promis'd, and I feare
-Thou playd'st most fowly for't: yet it was saide
-It should not stand in thy Posterity,
-But that my selfe should be the Roote, and Father
-Of many Kings. If there come truth from them,
-As vpon thee Macbeth, their Speeches shine,
-Why by the verities on thee made good,
-May they not be my Oracles as well,
-And set me vp in hope. But hush, no more.
-
-Senit sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Lenox, Rosse, Lords,
-and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. Heere's our chiefe Guest
-
-   La. If he had beene forgotten,
-It had bene as a gap in our great Feast,
-And all-thing vnbecomming
-
-   Macb. To night we hold a solemne Supper sir,
-And Ile request your presence
-
-   Banq. Let your Highnesse
-Command vpon me, to the which my duties
-Are with a most indissoluble tye
-For euer knit
-
-   Macb. Ride you this afternoone?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. We should haue else desir'd your good aduice
-(Which still hath been both graue, and prosperous)
-In this dayes Councell: but wee'le take to morrow.
-Is't farre you ride?
-  Ban. As farre, my Lord, as will fill vp the time
-'Twixt this, and Supper. Goe not my Horse the better,
-I must become a borrower of the Night,
-For a darke houre, or twaine
-
-   Macb. Faile not our Feast
-
-   Ban. My Lord, I will not
-
-   Macb. We heare our bloody Cozens are bestow'd
-In England, and in Ireland, not confessing
-Their cruell Parricide, filling their hearers
-With strange inuention. But of that to morrow,
-When therewithall, we shall haue cause of State,
-Crauing vs ioyntly. Hye you to Horse:
-Adieu, till you returne at Night.
-Goes Fleance with you?
-  Ban. I, my good Lord: our time does call vpon's
-
-   Macb. I wish your Horses swift, and sure of foot:
-And so I doe commend you to their backs.
-Farwell.
-
-Exit Banquo.
-
-Let euery man be master of his time,
-Till seuen at Night, to make societie
-The sweeter welcome:
-We will keepe our selfe till Supper time alone:
-While then, God be with you.
-
-Exeunt. Lords.
-
-Sirrha, a word with you: Attend those men
-Our pleasure?
-  Seruant. They are, my Lord, without the Pallace
-Gate
-
-   Macb. Bring them before vs.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-To be thus, is nothing, but to be safely thus
-Our feares in Banquo sticke deepe,
-And in his Royaltie of Nature reignes that
-Which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
-And to that dauntlesse temper of his Minde,
-He hath a Wisdome, that doth guide his Valour,
-To act in safetie. There is none but he,
-Whose being I doe feare: and vnder him,
-My Genius is rebuk'd, as it is said
-Mark Anthonies was by Caesar. He chid the Sisters,
-When first they put the Name of King vpon me,
-And bad them speake to him. Then Prophet-like,
-They hayl'd him Father to a Line of Kings.
-Vpon my Head they plac'd a fruitlesse Crowne,
-And put a barren Scepter in my Gripe,
-Thence to be wrencht with an vnlineall Hand,
-No Sonne of mine succeeding: if't be so,
-For Banquo's Issue haue I fil'd my Minde,
-For them, the gracious Duncan haue I murther'd,
-Put Rancours in the Vessell of my Peace
-Onely for them, and mine eternall Iewell
-Giuen to the common Enemie of Man,
-To make them Kings, the Seedes of Banquo Kings.
-Rather then so, come Fate into the Lyst,
-And champion me to th' vtterance.
-Who's there?
-Enter Seruant, and two Murtherers.
-
-Now goe to the Doore, and stay there till we call.
-
-Exit Seruant.
-
-Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
-  Murth. It was, so please your Highnesse
-
-   Macb. Well then,
-Now haue you consider'd of my speeches:
-Know, that it was he, in the times past,
-Which held you so vnder fortune,
-Which you thought had been our innocent selfe.
-This I made good to you, in our last conference,
-Past in probation with you:
-How you were borne in hand, how crost:
-The Instruments: who wrought with them:
-And all things else, that might
-To halfe a Soule, and to a Notion craz'd,
-Say, Thus did Banquo
-
-   1.Murth. You made it knowne to vs
-
-   Macb. I did so:
-And went further, which is now
-Our point of second meeting.
-Doe you finde your patience so predominant,
-In your nature, that you can let this goe?
-Are you so Gospell'd, to pray for this good man,
-And for his Issue, whose heauie hand
-Hath bow'd you to the Graue, and begger'd
-Yours for euer?
-  1.Murth. We are men, my Liege
-
-   Macb. I, in the Catalogue ye goe for men,
-As Hounds, and Greyhounds, Mungrels, Spaniels, Curres,
-Showghes, Water-Rugs, and Demy-Wolues are clipt
-All by the Name of Dogges: the valued file
-Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
-The House-keeper, the Hunter, euery one
-According to the gift, which bounteous Nature
-Hath in him clos'd: whereby he does receiue
-Particular addition, from the Bill,
-That writes them all alike: and so of men.
-Now, if you haue a station in the file,
-Not i'th' worst ranke of Manhood, say't,
-And I will put that Businesse in your Bosomes,
-Whose execution takes your Enemie off,
-Grapples you to the heart; and loue of vs,
-Who weare our Health but sickly in his Life,
-Which in his Death were perfect
-
-   2.Murth. I am one, my Liege,
-Whom the vile Blowes and Buffets of the World
-Hath so incens'd, that I am recklesse what I doe,
-To spight the World
-
-   1.Murth. And I another,
-So wearie with Disasters, tugg'd with Fortune,
-That I would set my Life on any Chance,
-To mend it, or be rid on't
-
-   Macb. Both of you know Banquo was your Enemie
-
-   Murth. True, my Lord
-
-   Macb. So is he mine: and in such bloody distance,
-That euery minute of his being, thrusts
-Against my neer'st of Life: and though I could
-With bare-fac'd power sweepe him from my sight,
-And bid my will auouch it; yet I must not,
-For certaine friends that are both his, and mine,
-Whose loues I may not drop, but wayle his fall,
-Who I my selfe struck downe: and thence it is,
-That I to your assistance doe make loue,
-Masking the Businesse from the common Eye,
-For sundry weightie Reasons
-
-   2.Murth. We shall, my Lord,
-Performe what you command vs
-
-   1.Murth. Though our Liues-
-  Macb. Your Spirits shine through you.
-Within this houre, at most,
-I will aduise you where to plant your selues,
-Acquaint you with the perfect Spy o'th' time,
-The moment on't, for't must be done to Night,
-And something from the Pallace: alwayes thought,
-That I require a clearenesse; and with him,
-To leaue no Rubs nor Botches in the Worke:
-  Fleans , his Sonne, that keepes him companie,
-Whose absence is no lesse materiall to me,
-Then is his Fathers, must embrace the fate
-Of that darke houre: resolue your selues apart,
-Ile come to you anon
-
-   Murth. We are resolu'd, my Lord
-
-   Macb. Ile call vpon you straight: abide within,
-It is concluded: Banquo, thy Soules flight,
-If it finde Heauen, must finde it out to Night.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macbeths Lady, and a Seruant.
-
-  Lady. Is Banquo gone from Court?
-  Seruant. I, Madame, but returnes againe to Night
-
-   Lady. Say to the King, I would attend his leysure,
-For a few words
-
-   Seruant. Madame, I will.
-Enter.
-
-  Lady. Nought's had, all's spent.
-Where our desire is got without content:
-'Tis safer, to be that which we destroy,
-Then by destruction dwell in doubtfull ioy.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-How now, my Lord, why doe you keepe alone?
-Of sorryest Fancies your Companions making,
-Vsing those Thoughts, which should indeed haue dy'd
-With them they thinke on: things without all remedie
-Should be without regard: what's done, is done
-
-   Macb. We haue scorch'd the Snake, not kill'd it:
-Shee'le close, and be her selfe, whilest our poore Mallice
-Remaines in danger of her former Tooth.
-But let the frame of things dis-ioynt,
-Both the Worlds suffer,
-Ere we will eate our Meale in feare, and sleepe
-In the affliction of these terrible Dreames,
-That shake vs Nightly: Better be with the dead,
-Whom we, to gayne our peace, haue sent to peace,
-Then on the torture of the Minde to lye
-In restlesse extasie.
-Duncane is in his Graue:
-After Lifes fitfull Feuer, he sleepes well,
-Treason ha's done his worst: nor Steele, nor Poyson,
-Mallice domestique, forraine Leuie, nothing,
-Can touch him further
-
-   Lady. Come on:
-Gentle my Lord, sleeke o're your rugged Lookes,
-Be bright and Iouiall among your Guests to Night
-
-   Macb. So shall I Loue, and so I pray be you:
-Let your remembrance apply to Banquo,
-Present him Eminence, both with Eye and Tongue:
-Vnsafe the while, that wee must laue
-Our Honors in these flattering streames,
-And make our Faces Vizards to our Hearts,
-Disguising what they are
-
-   Lady. You must leaue this
-
-   Macb. O, full of Scorpions is my Minde, deare Wife:
-Thou know'st, that Banquo and his Fleans liues
-
-   Lady. But in them, Natures Coppie's not eterne
-
-   Macb. There's comfort yet, they are assaileable,
-Then be thou iocund: ere the Bat hath flowne
-His Cloyster'd flight, ere to black Heccats summons
-The shard-borne Beetle, with his drowsie hums,
-Hath rung Nights yawning Peale,
-There shall be done a deed of dreadfull note
-
-   Lady. What's to be done?
-  Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck,
-Till thou applaud the deed: Come, seeling Night,
-Skarfe vp the tender Eye of pittifull Day,
-And with thy bloodie and inuisible Hand
-Cancell and teare to pieces that great Bond,
-Which keepes me pale. Light thickens,
-And the Crow makes Wing toth' Rookie Wood:
-Good things of Day begin to droope, and drowse,
-Whiles Nights black Agents to their Prey's doe rowse.
-Thou maruell'st at my words: but hold thee still,
-Things bad begun, make strong themselues by ill:
-So prythee goe with me.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Tertia.
-
-Enter three Murtherers.
-
-  1. But who did bid thee ioyne with vs?
-  3. Macbeth
-
-   2. He needes not our mistrust, since he deliuers
-Our Offices, and what we haue to doe,
-To the direction iust
-
-   1. Then stand with vs:
-The West yet glimmers with some streakes of Day.
-Now spurres the lated Traueller apace,
-To gayne the timely Inne, and neere approches
-The subiect of our Watch
-
-   3. Hearke, I heare Horses
-
-   Banquo within. Giue vs a Light there, hoa
-
-   2. Then 'tis hee:
-The rest, that are within the note of expectation,
-Alreadie are i'th' Court
-
-   1. His Horses goe about
-
-   3. Almost a mile: but he does vsually,
-So all men doe, from hence toth' Pallace Gate
-Make it their Walke.
-Enter Banquo and Fleans, with a Torch.
-
-  2. A Light, a Light
-
-   3. 'Tis hee
-
-   1. Stand too't
-
-   Ban. It will be Rayne to Night
-
-   1. Let it come downe
-
-   Ban. O, Trecherie!
-Flye good Fleans, flye, flye, flye,
-Thou may'st reuenge. O Slaue!
-  3. Who did strike out the Light?
-  1. Was't not the way?
-  3. There's but one downe: the Sonne is fled
-
-   2. We haue lost
-Best halfe of our Affaire
-
-   1. Well, let's away, and say how much is done.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Quarta.
-
-Banquet prepar'd. Enter Macbeth, Lady, Rosse, Lenox, Lords, and
-Attendants.
-
-  Macb. You know your owne degrees, sit downe:
-At first and last, the hearty welcome
-
-   Lords. Thankes to your Maiesty
-
-   Macb. Our selfe will mingle with Society,
-And play the humble Host:
-Our Hostesse keepes her State, but in best time
-We will require her welcome
-
-   La. Pronounce it for me Sir, to all our Friends,
-For my heart speakes, they are welcome.
-Enter first Murtherer.
-
-  Macb. See they encounter thee with their harts thanks
-Both sides are euen: heere Ile sit i'th' mid'st,
-Be large in mirth, anon wee'l drinke a Measure
-The Table round. There's blood vpon thy face
-
-   Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then
-
-   Macb. 'Tis better thee without, then he within.
-Is he dispatch'd?
-  Mur. My Lord his throat is cut, that I did for him
-
-   Mac. Thou art the best o'th' Cut-throats,
-Yet hee's good that did the like for Fleans:
-If thou did'st it, thou art the Non-pareill
-
-   Mur. Most Royall Sir
-Fleans is scap'd
-
-   Macb. Then comes my Fit againe:
-I had else beene perfect;
-Whole as the Marble, founded as the Rocke,
-As broad, and generall, as the casing Ayre:
-But now I am cabin'd, crib'd, confin'd, bound in
-To sawcy doubts, and feares. But Banquo's safe?
-  Mur. I, my good Lord: safe in a ditch he bides,
-With twenty trenched gashes on his head;
-The least a Death to Nature
-
-   Macb. Thankes for that:
-There the growne Serpent lyes, the worme that's fled
-Hath Nature that in time will Venom breed,
-No teeth for th' present. Get thee gone, to morrow
-Wee'l heare our selues againe.
-
-Exit Murderer.
-
-  Lady. My Royall Lord,
-You do not giue the Cheere, the Feast is sold
-That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making:
-'Tis giuen, with welcome: to feede were best at home:
-From thence, the sawce to meate is Ceremony,
-Meeting were bare without it.
-Enter the Ghost of Banquo, and sits in Macbeths place.
-
-  Macb. Sweet Remembrancer:
-Now good digestion waite on Appetite,
-And health on both
-
-   Lenox. May't please your Highnesse sit
-
-   Macb. Here had we now our Countries Honor, roof'd,
-Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present:
-Who, may I rather challenge for vnkindnesse,
-Then pitty for Mischance
-
-   Rosse. His absence (Sir)
-Layes blame vpon his promise. Pleas't your Highnesse
-To grace vs with your Royall Company?
-  Macb. The Table's full
-
-   Lenox. Heere is a place reseru'd Sir
-
-   Macb. Where?
-  Lenox. Heere my good Lord.
-What is't that moues your Highnesse?
-  Macb. Which of you haue done this?
-  Lords. What, my good Lord?
-  Macb. Thou canst not say I did it: neuer shake
-Thy goary lockes at me
-
-   Rosse. Gentlemen rise, his Highnesse is not well
-
-   Lady. Sit worthy Friends: my Lord is often thus,
-And hath beene from his youth. Pray you keepe Seat,
-The fit is momentary, vpon a thought
-He will againe be well. If much you note him
-You shall offend him, and extend his Passion,
-Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man?
-  Macb. I, and a bold one, that dare looke on that
-Which might appall the Diuell
-
-   La. O proper stuffe:
-This is the very painting of your feare:
-This is the Ayre-drawne-Dagger which you said
-Led you to Duncan. O, these flawes and starts
-(Impostors to true feare) would well become
-A womans story, at a Winters fire
-Authoriz'd by her Grandam: shame it selfe,
-Why do you make such faces? When all's done
-You looke but on a stoole
-
-   Macb. Prythee see there:
-Behold, looke, loe, how say you:
-Why what care I, if thou canst nod, speake too.
-If Charnell houses, and our Graues must send
-Those that we bury, backe; our Monuments
-Shall be the Mawes of Kytes
-
-   La. What? quite vnmann'd in folly
-
-   Macb. If I stand heere, I saw him
-
-   La. Fie for shame
-
-   Macb. Blood hath bene shed ere now, i'th' olden time
-Ere humane Statute purg'd the gentle Weale:
-I, and since too, Murthers haue bene perform'd
-Too terrible for the eare. The times has bene,
-That when the Braines were out, the man would dye,
-And there an end: But now they rise againe
-With twenty mortall murthers on their crownes,
-And push vs from our stooles. This is more strange
-Then such a murther is
-
-   La. My worthy Lord
-Your Noble Friends do lacke you
-
-   Macb. I do forget:
-Do not muse at me my most worthy Friends,
-I haue a strange infirmity, which is nothing
-To those that know me. Come, loue and health to all,
-Then Ile sit downe: Giue me some Wine, fill full:
-Enter Ghost.
-
-I drinke to th' generall ioy o'th' whole Table,
-And to our deere Friend Banquo, whom we misse:
-Would he were heere: to all, and him we thirst,
-And all to all
-
-   Lords. Our duties, and the pledge
-
-   Mac. Auant, & quit my sight, let the earth hide thee:
-Thy bones are marrowlesse, thy blood is cold:
-Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
-Which thou dost glare with
-
-   La. Thinke of this good Peeres
-But as a thing of Custome: 'Tis no other,
-Onely it spoyles the pleasure of the time
-
-   Macb. What man dare, I dare:
-Approach thou like the rugged Russian Beare,
-The arm'd Rhinoceros, or th' Hircan Tiger,
-Take any shape but that, and my firme Nerues
-Shall neuer tremble. Or be aliue againe,
-And dare me to the Desart with thy Sword:
-If trembling I inhabit then, protest mee
-The Baby of a Girle. Hence horrible shadow,
-Vnreall mock'ry hence. Why so, being gone
-I am a man againe: pray you sit still
-
-   La. You haue displac'd the mirth,
-Broke the good meeting, with most admir'd disorder
-
-   Macb. Can such things be,
-And ouercome vs like a Summers Clowd,
-Without our speciall wonder? You make me strange
-Euen to the disposition that I owe,
-When now I thinke you can behold such sights,
-And keepe the naturall Rubie of your Cheekes,
-When mine is blanch'd with feare
-
-   Rosse. What sights, my Lord?
-  La. I pray you speake not: he growes worse & worse
-Question enrages him: at once, goodnight.
-Stand not vpon the order of your going,
-But go at once
-
-   Len. Good night, and better health
-Attend his Maiesty
-
-   La. A kinde goodnight to all.
-
-Exit Lords.
-
-  Macb. It will haue blood they say:
-Blood will haue Blood:
-Stones haue beene knowne to moue, & Trees to speake:
-Augures, and vnderstood Relations, haue
-By Maggot Pyes, & Choughes, & Rookes brought forth
-The secret'st man of Blood. What is the night?
-  La. Almost at oddes with morning, which is which
-
-   Macb. How say'st thou that Macduff denies his person
-At our great bidding
-
-   La. Did you send to him Sir?
-  Macb. I heare it by the way: But I will send:
-There's not a one of them but in his house
-I keepe a Seruant Feed. I will to morrow
-(And betimes I will) to the weyard Sisters.
-More shall they speake: for now I am bent to know
-By the worst meanes, the worst, for mine owne good,
-All causes shall giue way. I am in blood
-Stept in so farre, that should I wade no more,
-Returning were as tedious as go ore:
-Strange things I haue in head, that will to hand,
-Which must be acted, ere they may be scand
-
-   La. You lacke the season of all Natures, sleepe
-
-   Macb. Come, wee'l to sleepe: My strange & self-abuse
-Is the initiate feare, that wants hard vse:
-We are yet but yong indeed.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scena Quinta.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecat.
-
-  1. Why how now Hecat, you looke angerly?
-  Hec. Haue I not reason (Beldams) as you are?
-Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare
-To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,
-In Riddles, and Affaires of death;
-And I the Mistris of your Charmes,
-The close contriuer of all harmes,
-Was neuer call'd to beare my part,
-Or shew the glory of our Art?
-And which is worse, all you haue done
-Hath bene but for a wayward Sonne,
-Spightfull, and wrathfull, who (as others do)
-Loues for his owne ends, not for you.
-But make amends now: Get you gon,
-And at the pit of Acheron
-Meete me i'th' Morning: thither he
-Will come, to know his Destinie.
-Your Vessels, and your Spels prouide,
-Your Charmes, and euery thing beside;
-I am for th' Ayre: This night Ile spend
-Vnto a dismall, and a Fatall end.
-Great businesse must be wrought ere Noone.
-Vpon the Corner of the Moone
-There hangs a vap'rous drop, profound,
-Ile catch it ere it come to ground;
-And that distill'd by Magicke slights,
-Shall raise such Artificiall Sprights,
-As by the strength of their illusion,
-Shall draw him on to his Confusion.
-He shall spurne Fate, scorne Death, and beare
-His hopes 'boue Wisedome, Grace, and Feare:
-And you all know, Security
-Is Mortals cheefest Enemie.
-
-Musicke, and a Song.
-
-Hearke, I am call'd: my little Spirit see
-Sits in Foggy cloud, and stayes for me.
-
-Sing within. Come away, come away, &c.
-
-  1 Come, let's make hast, shee'l soone be
-Backe againe.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-
-Scaena Sexta.
-
-Enter Lenox, and another Lord.
-
-  Lenox. My former Speeches,
-Haue but hit your Thoughts
-Which can interpret farther: Onely I say
-Things haue bin strangely borne. The gracious Duncan
-Was pittied of Macbeth: marry he was dead:
-And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,
-Whom you may say (if't please you) Fleans kill'd,
-For Fleans fled: Men must not walke too late.
-Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous
-It was for Malcolme, and for Donalbane
-To kill their gracious Father? Damned Fact,
-How it did greeue Macbeth? Did he not straight
-In pious rage, the two delinquents teare,
-That were the Slaues of drinke, and thralles of sleepe?
-Was not that Nobly done? I, and wisely too:
-For 'twould haue anger'd any heart aliue
-To heare the men deny't. So that I say,
-He ha's borne all things well, and I do thinke,
-That had he Duncans Sonnes vnder his Key,
-(As, and't please Heauen he shall not) they should finde
-What 'twere to kill a Father: So should Fleans.
-But peace; for from broad words, and cause he fayl'd
-His presence at the Tyrants Feast, I heare
-Macduffe liues in disgrace. Sir, can you tell
-Where he bestowes himselfe?
-  Lord. The Sonnes of Duncane
-(From whom this Tyrant holds the due of Birth)
-Liues in the English Court, and is receyu'd
-Of the most Pious Edward, with such grace,
-That the maleuolence of Fortune, nothing
-Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduffe
-Is gone, to pray the Holy King, vpon his ayd
-To wake Northumberland, and warlike Seyward,
-That by the helpe of these (with him aboue)
-To ratifie the Worke) we may againe
-Giue to our Tables meate, sleepe to our Nights:
-Free from our Feasts, and Banquets bloody kniues;
-Do faithfull Homage, and receiue free Honors,
-All which we pine for now. And this report
-Hath so exasperate their King, that hee
-Prepares for some attempt of Warre
-
-   Len. Sent he to Macduffe?
-  Lord. He did: and with an absolute Sir, not I
-The clowdy Messenger turnes me his backe,
-And hums; as who should say, you'l rue the time
-That clogges me with this Answer
-
-   Lenox. And that well might
-Aduise him to a Caution, t' hold what distance
-His wisedome can prouide. Some holy Angell
-Flye to the Court of England, and vnfold
-His Message ere he come, that a swift blessing
-May soone returne to this our suffering Country,
-Vnder a hand accurs'd
-
-   Lord. Ile send my Prayers with him.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
-
-Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
-
-  1 Thrice the brinded Cat hath mew'd
-
-   2 Thrice, and once the Hedge-Pigge whin'd
-
-   3 Harpier cries, 'tis time, 'tis time
-
-   1 Round about the Caldron go:
-In the poysond Entrailes throw
-Toad, that vnder cold stone,
-Dayes and Nights, ha's thirty one:
-Sweltred Venom sleeping got,
-Boyle thou first i'th' charmed pot
-
-   All. Double, double, toile and trouble;
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Fillet of a Fenny Snake,
-In the Cauldron boyle and bake:
-Eye of Newt, and Toe of Frogge,
-Wooll of Bat, and Tongue of Dogge:
-Adders Forke, and Blinde-wormes Sting,
-Lizards legge, and Howlets wing:
-For a Charme of powrefull trouble,
-Like a Hell-broth, boyle and bubble
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   3 Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolfe,
-Witches Mummey, Maw, and Gulfe
-Of the rauin'd salt Sea sharke:
-Roote of Hemlocke, digg'd i'th' darke:
-Liuer of Blaspheming Iew,
-Gall of Goate, and Slippes of Yew,
-Sliuer'd in the Moones Ecclipse:
-Nose of Turke, and Tartars lips:
-Finger of Birth-strangled Babe,
-Ditch-deliuer'd by a Drab,
-Make the Grewell thicke, and slab.
-Adde thereto a Tigers Chawdron,
-For th' Ingredience of our Cawdron
-
-   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
-Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
-
-   2 Coole it with a Baboones blood,
-Then the Charme is firme and good.
-Enter Hecat, and the other three Witches.
-
-  Hec. O well done: I commend your paines,
-And euery one shall share i'th' gaines:
-And now about the Cauldron sing
-Like Elues and Fairies in a Ring,
-Inchanting all that you put in.
-
-Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.
-
-  2 By the pricking of my Thumbes,
-Something wicked this way comes:
-Open Lockes, who euer knockes.
-Enter Macbeth.
-
-  Macb. How now you secret, black, & midnight Hags?
-What is't you do?
-  All. A deed without a name
-
-   Macb. I coniure you, by that which you Professe,
-(How ere you come to know it) answer me:
-Though you vntye the Windes, and let them fight
-Against the Churches: Though the yesty Waues
-Confound and swallow Nauigation vp:
-Though bladed Corne be lodg'd, & Trees blown downe,
-Though Castles topple on their Warders heads:
-Though Pallaces, and Pyramids do slope
-Their heads to their Foundations: Though the treasure
-Of Natures Germaine, tumble altogether,
-Euen till destruction sicken: Answer me
-To what I aske you
-
-   1 Speake
-
-   2 Demand
-
-   3 Wee'l answer
-
-   1 Say, if th'hadst rather heare it from our mouthes,
-Or from our Masters
-
-   Macb. Call 'em: let me see 'em
-
-   1 Powre in Sowes blood, that hath eaten
-Her nine Farrow: Greaze that's sweaten
-From the Murderers Gibbet, throw
-Into the Flame
-
-   All. Come high or low:
-Thy Selfe and Office deaftly show.
-Thunder. 1. Apparation, an Armed Head.
-
-  Macb. Tell me, thou vnknowne power
-
-   1 He knowes thy thought:
-Heare his speech, but say thou nought
-
-   1 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth:
-Beware Macduffe,
-Beware the Thane of Fife: dismisse me. Enough.
-
-He Descends.
-
-  Macb. What ere thou art, for thy good caution, thanks
-Thou hast harp'd my feare aright. But one word more
-
-   1 He will not be commanded: heere's another
-More potent then the first.
-
-Thunder. 2 Apparition, a Bloody Childe.
-
-  2 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth
-
-   Macb. Had I three eares, Il'd heare thee
-
-   Appar. Be bloody, bold, & resolute:
-Laugh to scorne
-The powre of man: For none of woman borne
-Shall harme Macbeth.
-
-Descends.
-
-  Mac. Then liue Macduffe: what need I feare of thee?
-But yet Ile make assurance: double sure,
-And take a Bond of Fate: thou shalt not liue,
-That I may tell pale-hearted Feare, it lies;
-And sleepe in spight of Thunder.
-
-Thunder 3 Apparation, a Childe Crowned, with a Tree in his hand.
-
-What is this, that rises like the issue of a King,
-And weares vpon his Baby-brow, the round
-And top of Soueraignty?
-  All. Listen, but speake not too't
-
-   3 Appar. Be Lyon metled, proud, and take no care:
-Who chafes, who frets, or where Conspirers are:
-Macbeth shall neuer vanquish'd be, vntill
-Great Byrnam Wood, to high Dunsmane Hill
-Shall come against him.
-
-Descend.
-
-  Macb. That will neuer bee:
-Who can impresse the Forrest, bid the Tree
-Vnfixe his earth-bound Root? Sweet boadments, good:
-Rebellious dead, rise neuer till the Wood
-Of Byrnan rise, and our high plac'd Macbeth
-Shall liue the Lease of Nature, pay his breath
-To time, and mortall Custome. Yet my Hart
-Throbs to know one thing: Tell me, if your Art
-Can tell so much: Shall Banquo's issue euer
-Reigne in this Kingdome?
-  All. Seeke to know no more
-
-   Macb. I will be satisfied. Deny me this,
-And an eternall Curse fall on you: Let me know.
-Why sinkes that Caldron? & what noise is this?
-
-Hoboyes
-
-  1 Shew
-
-   2 Shew
-
-   3 Shew
-
-   All. Shew his Eyes, and greeue his Hart,
-Come like shadowes, so depart.
-
-A shew of eight Kings, and Banquo last, with a glasse in his hand.
-
-  Macb. Thou art too like the Spirit of Banquo: Down:
-Thy Crowne do's seare mine Eye-bals. And thy haire
-Thou other Gold-bound-brow, is like the first:
-A third, is like the former. Filthy Hagges,
-Why do you shew me this? - A fourth? Start eyes!
-What will the Line stretch out to'th' cracke of Doome?
-Another yet? A seauenth? Ile see no more:
-And yet the eighth appeares, who beares a glasse,
-Which shewes me many more: and some I see,
-That two-fold Balles, and trebble Scepters carry.
-Horrible sight: Now I see 'tis true,
-For the Blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles vpon me,
-And points at them for his. What? is this so?
-  1 I Sir, all this is so. But why
-Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
-Come Sisters, cheere we vp his sprights,
-And shew the best of our delights.
-Ile Charme the Ayre to giue a sound,
-While you performe your Antique round:
-That this great King may kindly say,
-Our duties, did his welcome pay.
-
-Musicke. The Witches Dance, and vanish.
-
-  Macb. Where are they? Gone?
-Let this pernitious houre,
-Stand aye accursed in the Kalender.
-Come in, without there.
-Enter Lenox.
-
-  Lenox. What's your Graces will
-
-   Macb. Saw you the Weyard Sisters?
-  Lenox. No my Lord
-
-   Macb. Came they not by you?
-  Lenox. No indeed my Lord
-
-   Macb. Infected be the Ayre whereon they ride,
-And damn'd all those that trust them. I did heare
-The gallopping of Horse. Who was't came by?
-  Len. 'Tis two or three my Lord, that bring you word:
-Macduff is fled to England
-
-   Macb. Fled to England?
-  Len. I, my good Lord
-
-   Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
-The flighty purpose neuer is o're-tooke
-Vnlesse the deed go with it. From this moment,
-The very firstlings of my heart shall be
-The firstlings of my hand. And euen now
-To Crown my thoughts with Acts: be it thoght & done:
-The Castle of Macduff, I will surprize.
-Seize vpon Fife; giue to th' edge o'th' Sword
-His Wife, his Babes, and all vnfortunate Soules
-That trace him in his Line. No boasting like a Foole,
-This deed Ile do, before this purpose coole,
-But no more sights. Where are these Gentlemen?
-Come bring me where they are.
-
-Exeunt.
-
-Scena Secunda.
-
-Enter Macduffes Wife, her Son, and Rosse.
-
-  Wife. What had he done, to make him fly the Land?
-  Rosse. You must haue patience Madam
-
-   Wife. He had none:
-His flight was madnesse: when our Actions do not,
-Our feares do make vs Traitors
-
-   Rosse. You know not
-Whether it was his wisedome, or his feare
-
-   Wife. Wisedom? to leaue his wife, to leaue his Babes,
-His Mansion, and his Titles, in a place
-From whence himselfe do's flye? He loues vs not,
-He wants the naturall touch. For the poore Wren
-(The most diminitiue of Birds) will fight,
-Her yong ones 

<TRUNCATED>

[02/19] CRUNCH-341: Move test resources used across multiple modules to crunch-test

[ch...@apache.org]

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+***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
+********************The Tragedie of Macbeth*********************
+
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+The Tragedie of Macbeth
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+by William Shakespeare
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+July, 2000  [Etext #2264]
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+
+Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie of Macbeth
+
+
+
+
+
+Executive Director's Notes:
+
+In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think all
+the spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time have
+been corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as they
+are presented herein:
+
+  Barnardo. Who's there?
+  Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold
+your selfe
+
+   Bar. Long liue the King
+
+***
+
+As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words
+or letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . .this is the
+original meaning of the term cliche. . .and thus, being unwilling
+to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions
+that look very odd. . .such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,
+above. . .and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming
+Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . .
+
+The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a
+time when they were out of "v"'s. . .possibly having used "vv" in
+place of some "w"'s, etc.  This was a common practice of the day,
+as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend
+more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
+
+You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I
+have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an
+extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a
+very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare.  My father read an
+assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University
+in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the
+purpose.  To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available
+. . .in great detail. . .and determined from the various changes,
+that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a
+variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous
+for signing his name with several different spellings.
+
+So, please take this into account when reading the comments below
+made by our volunteer who prepared this file:  you may see errors
+that are "not" errors. . . .
+
+So. . .with this caveat. . .we have NOT changed the canon errors,
+here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie 
+of Macbeth.
+
+Michael S. Hart
+Project Gutenberg
+Executive Director
+
+
+***
+
+
+Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't.  This was taken from
+a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can
+come in ASCII to the printed text.
+
+The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the
+conjoined ae have been changed to ae.  I have left the spelling,
+punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the
+printed text.  I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put
+together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the
+Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified
+spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded
+abbreviations as I have come across them.  Everything within
+brackets [] is what I have added.  So if you don't like that
+you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a
+purer Shakespeare.
+
+Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual
+differences between various copies of the first folio.  So there may
+be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between
+this and other first folio editions.  This is due to the printer's
+habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and
+then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then
+continuing the printing run.  The proof run wasn't thrown away but
+incorporated into the printed copies.  This is just the way it is.
+The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different
+First Folio editions' best pages.
+
+If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuation
+errors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feel
+free to email me those errors.  I wish to make this the best
+etext possible.  My email address for right now are haradda@aol.com
+and davidr@inconnect.com.  I hope that you enjoy this.
+
+David Reed
+
+The Tragedie of Macbeth
+
+Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
+
+Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.
+
+  1. When shall we three meet againe?
+In Thunder, Lightning, or in Raine?
+  2. When the Hurley-burley's done,
+When the Battaile's lost, and wonne
+
+   3. That will be ere the set of Sunne
+
+   1. Where the place?
+  2. Vpon the Heath
+
+   3. There to meet with Macbeth
+
+   1. I come, Gray-Malkin
+
+   All. Padock calls anon: faire is foule, and foule is faire,
+Houer through the fogge and filthie ayre.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Secunda.
+
+Alarum within. Enter King Malcome, Donalbaine, Lenox, with
+attendants,
+meeting a bleeding Captaine.
+
+  King. What bloody man is that? he can report,
+As seemeth by his plight, of the Reuolt
+The newest state
+
+   Mal. This is the Serieant,
+Who like a good and hardie Souldier fought
+'Gainst my Captiuitie: Haile braue friend;
+Say to the King, the knowledge of the Broyle,
+As thou didst leaue it
+
+   Cap. Doubtfull it stood,
+As two spent Swimmers, that doe cling together,
+And choake their Art: The mercilesse Macdonwald
+(Worthie to be a Rebell, for to that
+The multiplying Villanies of Nature
+Doe swarme vpon him) from the Westerne Isles
+Of Kernes and Gallowgrosses is supply'd,
+And Fortune on his damned Quarry smiling,
+Shew'd like a Rebells Whore: but all's too weake:
+For braue Macbeth (well hee deserues that Name)
+Disdayning Fortune, with his brandisht Steele,
+Which smoak'd with bloody execution
+(Like Valours Minion) caru'd out his passage,
+Till hee fac'd the Slaue:
+Which neu'r shooke hands, nor bad farwell to him,
+Till he vnseam'd him from the Naue toth' Chops,
+And fix'd his Head vpon our Battlements
+
+   King. O valiant Cousin, worthy Gentleman
+
+   Cap. As whence the Sunne 'gins his reflection,
+Shipwracking Stormes, and direfull Thunders:
+So from that Spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,
+Discomfort swells: Marke King of Scotland, marke,
+No sooner Iustice had, with Valour arm'd,
+Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their heeles,
+But the Norweyan Lord, surueying vantage,
+With furbusht Armes, and new supplyes of men,
+Began a fresh assault
+
+   King. Dismay'd not this our Captaines, Macbeth and
+Banquoh?
+  Cap. Yes, as Sparrowes, Eagles;
+Or the Hare, the Lyon:
+If I say sooth, I must report they were
+As Cannons ouer-charg'd with double Cracks,
+So they doubly redoubled stroakes vpon the Foe:
+Except they meant to bathe in reeking Wounds,
+Or memorize another Golgotha,
+I cannot tell: but I am faint,
+My Gashes cry for helpe
+
+   King. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds,
+They smack of Honor both: Goe get him Surgeons.
+Enter Rosse and Angus.
+
+Who comes here?
+  Mal. The worthy Thane of Rosse
+
+   Lenox. What a haste lookes through his eyes?
+So should he looke, that seemes to speake things strange
+
+   Rosse. God saue the King
+
+   King. Whence cam'st thou, worthy Thane?
+  Rosse. From Fiffe, great King,
+Where the Norweyan Banners flowt the Skie,
+And fanne our people cold.
+Norway himselfe, with terrible numbers,
+Assisted by that most disloyall Traytor,
+The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismall Conflict,
+Till that Bellona's Bridegroome, lapt in proofe,
+Confronted him with selfe-comparisons,
+Point against Point, rebellious Arme 'gainst Arme,
+Curbing his lauish spirit: and to conclude,
+The Victorie fell on vs
+
+   King. Great happinesse
+
+   Rosse. That now Sweno, the Norwayes King,
+Craues composition:
+Nor would we deigne him buriall of his men,
+Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes ynch,
+Ten thousand Dollars, to our generall vse
+
+   King. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceiue
+Our Bosome interest: Goe pronounce his present death,
+And with his former Title greet Macbeth
+
+   Rosse. Ile see it done
+
+   King. What he hath lost, Noble Macbeth hath wonne.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Tertia.
+
+Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
+
+  1. Where hast thou beene, Sister?
+  2. Killing Swine
+
+   3. Sister, where thou?
+  1. A Saylors Wife had Chestnuts in her Lappe,
+And mouncht, & mouncht, and mouncht:
+Giue me, quoth I.
+Aroynt thee, Witch, the rumpe-fed Ronyon cryes.
+Her Husband's to Aleppo gone, Master o'th' Tiger:
+But in a Syue Ile thither sayle,
+And like a Rat without a tayle,
+Ile doe, Ile doe, and Ile doe
+
+   2. Ile giue thee a Winde
+
+   1. Th'art kinde
+
+   3. And I another
+
+   1. I my selfe haue all the other,
+And the very Ports they blow,
+All the Quarters that they know,
+I'th' Ship-mans Card.
+Ile dreyne him drie as Hay:
+Sleepe shall neyther Night nor Day
+Hang vpon his Pent-house Lid:
+He shall liue a man forbid:
+Wearie Seu'nights, nine times nine,
+Shall he dwindle, peake, and pine:
+Though his Barke cannot be lost,
+Yet it shall be Tempest-tost.
+Looke what I haue
+
+   2. Shew me, shew me
+
+   1. Here I haue a Pilots Thumbe,
+Wrackt, as homeward he did come.
+
+Drum within.
+
+  3. A Drumme, a Drumme:
+Macbeth doth come
+
+   All. The weyward Sisters, hand in hand,
+Posters of the Sea and Land,
+Thus doe goe, about, about,
+Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
+And thrice againe, to make vp nine.
+Peace, the Charme's wound vp.
+Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
+
+  Macb. So foule and faire a day I haue not seene
+
+   Banquo. How farre is't call'd to Soris? What are these,
+So wither'd, and so wilde in their attyre,
+That looke not like th' Inhabitants o'th' Earth,
+And yet are on't? Liue you, or are you aught
+That man may question? you seeme to vnderstand me,
+By each at once her choppie finger laying
+Vpon her skinnie Lips: you should be Women,
+And yet your Beards forbid me to interprete
+That you are so
+
+   Mac. Speake if you can: what are you?
+  1. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Glamis
+
+   2. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Cawdor
+
+   3. All haile Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter
+
+   Banq. Good Sir, why doe you start, and seeme to feare
+Things that doe sound so faire? i'th' name of truth
+Are ye fantasticall, or that indeed
+Which outwardly ye shew? My Noble Partner
+You greet with present Grace, and great prediction
+Of Noble hauing, and of Royall hope,
+That he seemes wrapt withall: to me you speake not.
+If you can looke into the Seedes of Time,
+And say, which Graine will grow, and which will not,
+Speake then to me, who neyther begge, nor feare
+Your fauors, nor your hate
+
+   1. Hayle
+
+   2. Hayle
+
+   3. Hayle
+
+   1. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater
+
+   2. Not so happy, yet much happyer
+
+   3. Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none:
+So all haile Macbeth, and Banquo
+
+   1. Banquo, and Macbeth, all haile
+
+   Macb. Stay you imperfect Speakers, tell me more:
+By Sinells death, I know I am Thane of Glamis,
+But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor liues
+A prosperous Gentleman: And to be King,
+Stands not within the prospect of beleefe,
+No more then to be Cawdor. Say from whence
+You owe this strange Intelligence, or why
+Vpon this blasted Heath you stop our way
+With such Prophetique greeting?
+Speake, I charge you.
+
+Witches vanish.
+
+  Banq. The Earth hath bubbles, as the Water ha's,
+And these are of them: whither are they vanish'd?
+  Macb. Into the Ayre: and what seem'd corporall,
+Melted, as breath into the Winde.
+Would they had stay'd
+
+   Banq. Were such things here, as we doe speake about?
+Or haue we eaten on the insane Root,
+That takes the Reason Prisoner?
+  Macb. Your Children shall be Kings
+
+   Banq. You shall be King
+
+   Macb. And Thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?
+  Banq. Toth' selfe-same tune and words: who's here?
+Enter Rosse and Angus.
+
+  Rosse. The King hath happily receiu'd, Macbeth,
+The newes of thy successe: and when he reades
+Thy personall Venture in the Rebels sight,
+His Wonders and his Prayses doe contend,
+Which should be thine, or his: silenc'd with that,
+In viewing o're the rest o'th' selfe-same day,
+He findes thee in the stout Norweyan Rankes,
+Nothing afeard of what thy selfe didst make
+Strange Images of death, as thick as Tale
+Can post with post, and euery one did beare
+Thy prayses in his Kingdomes great defence,
+And powr'd them downe before him
+
+   Ang. Wee are sent,
+To giue thee from our Royall Master thanks,
+Onely to harrold thee into his sight,
+Not pay thee
+
+   Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater Honor,
+He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:
+In which addition, haile most worthy Thane,
+For it is thine
+
+   Banq. What, can the Deuill speake true?
+  Macb. The Thane of Cawdor liues:
+Why doe you dresse me in borrowed Robes?
+  Ang. Who was the Thane, liues yet,
+But vnder heauie Iudgement beares that Life,
+Which he deserues to loose.
+Whether he was combin'd with those of Norway,
+Or did lyne the Rebell with hidden helpe,
+And vantage; or that with both he labour'd
+In his Countreyes wracke, I know not:
+But Treasons Capitall, confess'd, and prou'd,
+Haue ouerthrowne him
+
+   Macb. Glamys, and Thane of Cawdor:
+The greatest is behinde. Thankes for your paines.
+Doe you not hope your Children shall be Kings,
+When those that gaue the Thane of Cawdor to me,
+Promis'd no lesse to them
+
+   Banq. That trusted home,
+Might yet enkindle you vnto the Crowne,
+Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:
+And oftentimes, to winne vs to our harme,
+The Instruments of Darknesse tell vs Truths,
+Winne vs with honest Trifles, to betray's
+In deepest consequence.
+Cousins, a word, I pray you
+
+   Macb. Two Truths are told,
+As happy Prologues to the swelling Act
+Of the Imperiall Theame. I thanke you Gentlemen:
+This supernaturall solliciting
+Cannot be ill; cannot be good.
+If ill? why hath it giuen me earnest of successe,
+Commencing in a Truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
+If good? why doe I yeeld to that suggestion,
+Whose horrid Image doth vnfixe my Heire,
+And make my seated Heart knock at my Ribbes,
+Against the vse of Nature? Present Feares
+Are lesse then horrible Imaginings:
+My Thought, whose Murther yet is but fantasticall,
+Shakes so my single state of Man,
+That Function is smother'd in surmise,
+And nothing is, but what is not
+
+   Banq. Looke how our Partner's rapt
+
+   Macb. If Chance will haue me King,
+Why Chance may Crowne me,
+Without my stirre
+
+   Banq. New Honors come vpon him
+Like our strange Garments, cleaue not to their mould,
+But with the aid of vse
+
+   Macb. Come what come may,
+Time, and the Houre, runs through the roughest Day
+
+   Banq. Worthy Macbeth, wee stay vpon your leysure
+
+   Macb. Giue me your fauour:
+My dull Braine was wrought with things forgotten.
+Kinde Gentlemen, your paines are registred,
+Where euery day I turne the Leafe,
+To reade them.
+Let vs toward the King: thinke vpon
+What hath chanc'd: and at more time,
+The Interim hauing weigh'd it, let vs speake
+Our free Hearts each to other
+
+   Banq. Very gladly
+
+   Macb. Till then enough:
+Come friends.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Quarta.
+
+Flourish. Enter King, Lenox, Malcolme, Donalbaine, and
+Attendants.
+
+  King. Is execution done on Cawdor?
+Or not those in Commission yet return'd?
+  Mal. My Liege, they are not yet come back.
+But I haue spoke with one that saw him die:
+Who did report, that very frankly hee
+Confess'd his Treasons, implor'd your Highnesse Pardon,
+And set forth a deepe Repentance:
+Nothing in his Life became him,
+Like the leauing it. Hee dy'de,
+As one that had beene studied in his death,
+To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,
+As 'twere a carelesse Trifle
+
+   King. There's no Art,
+To finde the Mindes construction in the Face.
+He was a Gentleman, on whom I built
+An absolute Trust.
+Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Rosse, and Angus.
+
+O worthyest Cousin,
+The sinne of my Ingratitude euen now
+Was heauie on me. Thou art so farre before,
+That swiftest Wing of Recompence is slow,
+To ouertake thee. Would thou hadst lesse deseru'd,
+That the proportion both of thanks, and payment,
+Might haue beene mine: onely I haue left to say,
+More is thy due, then more then all can pay
+
+   Macb. The seruice, and the loyaltie I owe,
+In doing it, payes it selfe.
+Your Highnesse part, is to receiue our Duties:
+And our Duties are to your Throne, and State,
+Children, and Seruants; which doe but what they should,
+By doing euery thing safe toward your Loue
+And Honor
+
+   King. Welcome hither:
+I haue begun to plant thee, and will labour
+To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
+That hast no lesse deseru'd, nor must be knowne
+No lesse to haue done so: Let me enfold thee,
+And hold thee to my Heart
+
+   Banq. There if I grow,
+The Haruest is your owne
+
+   King. My plenteous Ioyes,
+Wanton in fulnesse, seeke to hide themselues
+In drops of sorrow. Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,
+And you whose places are the nearest, know,
+We will establish our Estate vpon
+Our eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,
+The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor must
+Not vnaccompanied, inuest him onely,
+But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shine
+On all deseruers. From hence to Envernes,
+And binde vs further to you
+
+   Macb. The Rest is Labor, which is not vs'd for you:
+Ile be my selfe the Herbenger, and make ioyfull
+The hearing of my Wife, with your approach:
+So humbly take my leaue
+
+   King. My worthy Cawdor
+
+   Macb. The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step,
+On which I must fall downe, or else o're-leape,
+For in my way it lyes. Starres hide your fires,
+Let not Light see my black and deepe desires:
+The Eye winke at the Hand: yet let that bee,
+Which the Eye feares, when it is done to see.
+Enter.
+
+  King. True worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,
+And in his commendations, I am fed:
+It is a Banquet to me. Let's after him,
+Whose care is gone before, to bid vs welcome:
+It is a peerelesse Kinsman.
+
+Flourish. Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Quinta.
+
+Enter Macbeths Wife alone with a Letter.
+
+  Lady. They met me in the day of successe: and I haue
+learn'd by the perfect'st report, they haue more in them, then
+mortall knowledge. When I burnt in desire to question them
+further, they made themselues Ayre, into which they vanish'd.
+Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missiues from
+the King, who all-hail'd me Thane of Cawdor, by which Title
+before, these weyward Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me to
+the comming on of time, with haile King that shalt be. This
+haue I thought good to deliuer thee (my dearest Partner of
+Greatnesse) that thou might'st not loose the dues of reioycing
+by being ignorant of what Greatnesse is promis'd thee. Lay
+it to thy heart and farewell.
+Glamys thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
+What thou art promis'd: yet doe I feare thy Nature,
+It is too full o'th' Milke of humane kindnesse,
+To catch the neerest way. Thou would'st be great,
+Art not without Ambition, but without
+The illnesse should attend it. What thou would'st highly,
+That would'st thou holily: would'st not play false,
+And yet would'st wrongly winne.
+Thould'st haue, great Glamys, that which cryes,
+Thus thou must doe, if thou haue it;
+And that which rather thou do'st feare to doe,
+Then wishest should be vndone. High thee hither,
+That I may powre my Spirits in thine Eare,
+And chastise with the valour of my Tongue
+All that impeides thee from the Golden Round,
+Which Fate and Metaphysicall ayde doth seeme
+To haue thee crown'd withall.
+Enter Messenger.
+
+What is your tidings?
+  Mess. The King comes here to Night
+
+   Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it.
+Is not thy Master with him? who, wer't so,
+Would haue inform'd for preparation
+
+   Mess. So please you, it is true: our Thane is comming:
+One of my fellowes had the speed of him;
+Who almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
+Then would make vp his Message
+
+   Lady. Giue him tending,
+He brings great newes,
+
+Exit Messenger.
+
+The Rauen himselfe is hoarse,
+That croakes the fatall entrance of Duncan
+Vnder my Battlements. Come you Spirits,
+That tend on mortall thoughts, vnsex me here,
+And fill me from the Crowne to the Toe, top-full
+Of direst Crueltie: make thick my blood,
+Stop vp th' accesse, and passage to Remorse,
+That no compunctious visitings of Nature
+Shake my fell purpose, nor keepe peace betweene
+Th' effect, and hit. Come to my Womans Brests,
+And take my Milke for Gall, you murth'ring Ministers,
+Where-euer, in your sightlesse substances,
+You wait on Natures Mischiefe. Come thick Night,
+And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell,
+
+That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes,
+Nor Heauen peepe through the Blanket of the darke,
+To cry, hold, hold.
+Enter Macbeth.
+
+Great Glamys, worthy Cawdor,
+Greater then both, by the all-haile hereafter,
+Thy Letters haue transported me beyond
+This ignorant present, and I feele now
+The future in the instant
+
+   Macb. My dearest Loue,
+Duncan comes here to Night
+
+   Lady. And when goes hence?
+  Macb. To morrow, as he purposes
+
+   Lady. O neuer,
+Shall Sunne that Morrow see.
+Your Face, my Thane, is as a Booke, where men
+May reade strange matters, to beguile the time.
+Looke like the time, beare welcome in your Eye,
+Your Hand, your Tongue: looke like th' innocent flower,
+But be the Serpent vnder't. He that's comming,
+Must be prouided for: and you shall put
+This Nights great Businesse into my dispatch,
+Which shall to all our Nights, and Dayes to come,
+Giue solely soueraigne sway, and Masterdome
+
+   Macb. We will speake further,
+  Lady. Onely looke vp cleare:
+To alter fauor, euer is to feare:
+Leaue all the rest to me.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Sexta.
+
+Hoboyes, and Torches. Enter King, Malcolme, Donalbaine,
+Banquo, Lenox,
+Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and Attendants.
+
+  King. This Castle hath a pleasant seat,
+The ayre nimbly and sweetly recommends it selfe
+Vnto our gentle sences
+
+   Banq. This Guest of Summer,
+The Temple-haunting Barlet does approue,
+By his loued Mansonry, that the Heauens breath
+Smells wooingly here: no Iutty frieze,
+Buttrice, nor Coigne of Vantage, but this Bird
+Hath made his pendant Bed, and procreant Cradle,
+Where they must breed, and haunt: I haue obseru'd
+The ayre is delicate.
+Enter Lady.
+
+  King. See, see our honor'd Hostesse:
+The Loue that followes vs, sometime is our trouble,
+Which still we thanke as Loue. Herein I teach you,
+How you shall bid God-eyld vs for your paines,
+And thanke vs for your trouble
+
+   Lady. All our seruice,
+In euery point twice done, and then done double,
+Were poore, and single Businesse, to contend
+Against those Honors deepe, and broad,
+Wherewith your Maiestie loades our House:
+For those of old, and the late Dignities,
+Heap'd vp to them, we rest your Ermites
+
+   King. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
+We courst him at the heeles, and had a purpose
+To be his Purueyor: But he rides well,
+And his great Loue (sharpe as his Spurre) hath holp him
+To his home before vs: Faire and Noble Hostesse
+We are your guest to night
+
+   La. Your Seruants euer,
+Haue theirs, themselues, and what is theirs in compt,
+To make their Audit at your Highnesse pleasure,
+Still to returne your owne
+
+   King. Giue me your hand:
+Conduct me to mine Host we loue him highly,
+And shall continue, our Graces towards him.
+By your leaue Hostesse.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+Scena Septima.
+
+Hoboyes. Torches. Enter a Sewer, and diuers Seruants with Dishes
+and
+Seruice ouer the Stage. Then enter Macbeth
+
+   Macb. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twer well,
+It were done quickly: If th' Assassination
+Could trammell vp the Consequence, and catch
+With his surcease, Successe: that but this blow
+Might be the be all, and the end all. Heere,
+But heere, vpon this Banke and Schoole of time,
+Wee'ld iumpe the life to come. But in these Cases,
+We still haue iudgement heere, that we but teach
+Bloody Instructions, which being taught, returne
+To plague th' Inuenter, this euen-handed Iustice
+Commends th' Ingredience of our poyson'd Challice
+To our owne lips. Hee's heere in double trust;
+First, as I am his Kinsman, and his Subiect,
+Strong both against the Deed: Then, as his Host,
+Who should against his Murtherer shut the doore,
+Not beare the knife my selfe. Besides, this Duncane
+Hath borne his Faculties so meeke; hath bin
+So cleere in his great Office, that his Vertues
+Will pleade like Angels, Trumpet-tongu'd against
+The deepe damnation of his taking off:
+And Pitty, like a naked New-borne-Babe,
+Striding the blast, or Heauens Cherubin, hors'd
+Vpon the sightlesse Curriors of the Ayre,
+Shall blow the horrid deed in euery eye,
+That teares shall drowne the winde. I haue no Spurre
+To pricke the sides of my intent, but onely
+Vaulting Ambition, which ore-leapes it selfe,
+And falles on th' other.
+Enter Lady.
+
+How now? What Newes?
+  La. He has almost supt: why haue you left the chamber?
+  Mac. Hath he ask'd for me?
+  La. Know you not, he ha's?
+  Mac. We will proceed no further in this Businesse:
+He hath Honour'd me of late, and I haue bought
+Golden Opinions from all sorts of people,
+Which would be worne now in their newest glosse,
+Not cast aside so soone
+
+   La. Was the hope drunke,
+Wherein you drest your selfe? Hath it slept since?
+And wakes it now to looke so greene, and pale,
+At what it did so freely? From this time,
+Such I account thy loue. Art thou affear'd
+To be the same in thine owne Act, and Valour,
+As thou art in desire? Would'st thou haue that
+Which thou esteem'st the Ornament of Life,
+And liue a Coward in thine owne Esteeme?
+Letting I dare not, wait vpon I would,
+Like the poore Cat i'th' Addage
+
+   Macb. Prythee peace:
+I dare do all that may become a man,
+Who dares do more, is none
+
+   La. What Beast was't then
+That made you breake this enterprize to me?
+When you durst do it, then you were a man:
+And to be more then what you were, you would
+Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place
+Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
+They haue made themselues, and that their fitnesse now
+Do's vnmake you. I haue giuen Sucke, and know
+How tender 'tis to loue the Babe that milkes me,
+I would, while it was smyling in my Face,
+Haue pluckt my Nipple from his Bonelesse Gummes,
+And dasht the Braines out, had I so sworne
+As you haue done to this
+
+   Macb. If we should faile?
+  Lady. We faile?
+But screw your courage to the sticking place,
+And wee'le not fayle: when Duncan is asleepe,
+(Whereto the rather shall his dayes hard Iourney
+Soundly inuite him) his two Chamberlaines
+Will I with Wine, and Wassell, so conuince,
+That Memorie, the Warder of the Braine,
+Shall be a Fume, and the Receit of Reason
+A Lymbeck onely: when in Swinish sleepe,
+Their drenched Natures lyes as in a Death,
+What cannot you and I performe vpon
+Th' vnguarded Duncan? What not put vpon
+His spungie Officers? who shall beare the guilt
+Of our great quell
+
+   Macb. Bring forth Men-Children onely:
+For thy vndaunted Mettle should compose
+Nothing but Males. Will it not be receiu'd,
+When we haue mark'd with blood those sleepie two
+Of his owne Chamber, and vs'd their very Daggers,
+That they haue don't?
+  Lady. Who dares receiue it other,
+As we shall make our Griefes and Clamor rore,
+Vpon his Death?
+  Macb. I am settled, and bend vp
+Each corporall Agent to this terrible Feat.
+Away, and mock the time with fairest show,
+False Face must hide what the false Heart doth know.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
+
+Enter Banquo, and Fleance, with a Torch before him.
+
+  Banq. How goes the Night, Boy?
+  Fleance. The Moone is downe: I haue not heard the
+Clock
+
+   Banq. And she goes downe at Twelue
+
+   Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir
+
+   Banq. Hold, take my Sword:
+There's Husbandry in Heauen,
+Their Candles are all out: take thee that too.
+A heauie Summons lyes like Lead vpon me,
+And yet I would not sleepe:
+Mercifull Powers, restraine in me the cursed thoughts
+That Nature giues way to in repose.
+Enter Macbeth, and a Seruant with a Torch.
+
+Giue me my Sword: who's there?
+  Macb. A Friend
+
+   Banq. What Sir, not yet at rest? the King's a bed.
+He hath beene in vnusuall Pleasure,
+And sent forth great Largesse to your Offices.
+This Diamond he greetes your Wife withall,
+By the name of most kind Hostesse,
+And shut vp in measurelesse content
+
+   Mac. Being vnprepar'd,
+Our will became the seruant to defect,
+Which else should free haue wrought
+
+   Banq. All's well.
+I dreamt last Night of the three weyward Sisters:
+To you they haue shew'd some truth
+
+   Macb. I thinke not of them:
+Yet when we can entreat an houre to serue,
+We would spend it in some words vpon that Businesse,
+If you would graunt the time
+
+   Banq. At your kind'st leysure
+
+   Macb. If you shall cleaue to my consent,
+When 'tis, it shall make Honor for you
+
+   Banq. So I lose none,
+In seeking to augment it, but still keepe
+My Bosome franchis'd, and Allegeance cleare,
+I shall be counsail'd
+
+   Macb. Good repose the while
+
+   Banq. Thankes Sir: the like to you.
+
+Exit Banquo.
+
+  Macb. Goe bid thy Mistresse, when my drinke is ready,
+She strike vpon the Bell. Get thee to bed.
+Enter.
+
+Is this a Dagger, which I see before me,
+The Handle toward my Hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
+I haue thee not, and yet I see thee still.
+Art thou not fatall Vision, sensible
+To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
+A Dagger of the Minde, a false Creation,
+Proceeding from the heat-oppressed Braine?
+I see thee yet, in forme as palpable,
+As this which now I draw.
+Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
+And such an Instrument I was to vse.
+Mine Eyes are made the fooles o'th' other Sences,
+Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
+And on thy Blade, and Dudgeon, Gouts of Blood,
+Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
+It is the bloody Businesse, which informes
+Thus to mine Eyes. Now o're the one halfe World
+Nature seemes dead, and wicked Dreames abuse
+The Curtain'd sleepe: Witchcraft celebrates
+Pale Heccats Offrings: and wither'd Murther,
+Alarum'd by his Centinell, the Wolfe,
+Whose howle's his Watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
+With Tarquins rauishing sides, towards his designe
+Moues like a Ghost. Thou sowre and firme-set Earth
+Heare not my steps, which they may walke, for feare
+Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
+And take the present horror from the time,
+Which now sutes with it. Whiles I threat, he liues:
+Words to the heat of deedes too cold breath giues.
+
+A Bell rings.
+
+I goe, and it is done: the Bell inuites me.
+Heare it not, Duncan, for it is a Knell,
+That summons thee to Heauen, or to Hell.
+Enter.
+
+
+Scena Secunda.
+
+Enter Lady.
+
+  La. That which hath made the[m] drunk, hath made me bold:
+What hath quench'd them, hath giuen me fire.
+Hearke, peace: it was the Owle that shriek'd,
+The fatall Bell-man, which giues the stern'st good-night.
+He is about it, the Doores are open:
+And the surfeted Groomes doe mock their charge
+With Snores. I haue drugg'd their Possets,
+That Death and Nature doe contend about them,
+Whether they liue, or dye.
+Enter Macbeth.
+
+  Macb. Who's there? what hoa?
+  Lady. Alack, I am afraid they haue awak'd,
+And 'tis not done: th' attempt, and not the deed,
+Confounds vs: hearke: I lay'd their Daggers ready,
+He could not misse 'em. Had he not resembled
+My Father as he slept, I had don't.
+My Husband?
+  Macb. I haue done the deed:
+Didst thou not heare a noyse?
+  Lady. I heard the Owle schreame, and the Crickets cry.
+Did not you speake?
+  Macb. When?
+  Lady. Now
+
+   Macb. As I descended?
+  Lady. I
+
+   Macb. Hearke, who lyes i'th' second Chamber?
+  Lady. Donalbaine
+
+   Mac. This is a sorry sight
+
+   Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight
+
+   Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleepe,
+And one cry'd Murther, that they did wake each other:
+I stood, and heard them: But they did say their Prayers,
+And addrest them againe to sleepe
+
+   Lady. There are two lodg'd together
+
+   Macb. One cry'd God blesse vs, and Amen the other,
+As they had seene me with these Hangmans hands:
+Listning their feare, I could not say Amen,
+When they did say God blesse vs
+
+   Lady. Consider it not so deepely
+
+   Mac. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen?
+I had most need of Blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat
+
+   Lady. These deeds must not be thought
+After these wayes: so, it will make vs mad
+
+   Macb. Me thought I heard a voyce cry, Sleep no more:
+Macbeth does murther Sleepe, the innocent Sleepe,
+Sleepe that knits vp the rauel'd Sleeue of Care,
+The death of each dayes Life, sore Labors Bath,
+Balme of hurt Mindes, great Natures second Course,
+Chiefe nourisher in Life's Feast
+
+   Lady. What doe you meane?
+  Macb. Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the House:
+Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and therefore Cawdor
+Shall sleepe no more: Macbeth shall sleepe no more
+
+   Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why worthy Thane,
+You doe vnbend your Noble strength, to thinke
+So braine-sickly of things: Goe get some Water,
+And wash this filthie Witnesse from your Hand.
+Why did you bring these Daggers from the place?
+They must lye there: goe carry them, and smeare
+The sleepie Groomes with blood
+
+   Macb. Ile goe no more:
+I am afraid, to thinke what I haue done:
+Looke on't againe, I dare not
+
+   Lady. Infirme of purpose:
+Giue me the Daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
+Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Childhood,
+That feares a painted Deuill. If he doe bleed,
+Ile guild the Faces of the Groomes withall,
+For it must seeme their Guilt.
+Enter.
+
+Knocke within.
+
+  Macb. Whence is that knocking?
+How is't with me, when euery noyse appalls me?
+What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes.
+Will all great Neptunes Ocean wash this blood
+Cleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather
+The multitudinous Seas incarnardine,
+Making the Greene one, Red.
+Enter Lady.
+
+  Lady. My Hands are of your colour: but I shame
+To weare a Heart so white.
+
+Knocke.
+
+I heare a knocking at the South entry:
+Retyre we to our Chamber:
+A little Water cleares vs of this deed.
+How easie is it then? your Constancie
+Hath left you vnattended.
+
+Knocke.
+
+Hearke, more knocking.
+Get on your Night-Gowne, least occasion call vs,
+And shew vs to be Watchers: be not lost
+So poorely in your thoughts
+
+   Macb. To know my deed,
+
+Knocke.
+
+'Twere best not know my selfe.
+Wake Duncan with thy knocking:
+I would thou could'st.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Tertia.
+
+Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
+
+  Porter. Here's a knocking indeede: if a man were
+Porter of Hell Gate, hee should haue old turning the
+Key.
+
+Knock.
+
+Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there
+i'th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hang'd
+himselfe on th' expectation of Plentie: Come in time, haue
+Napkins enow about you, here you'le sweat for't.
+
+Knock.
+
+Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name?
+Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in both
+the Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treason
+enough for Gods sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen:
+oh come in, Equiuocator.
+
+Knock.
+
+Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an English
+Taylor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose:
+Come in Taylor, here you may rost your Goose.
+Knock.
+
+Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but this
+place is too cold for Hell. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further:
+I had thought to haue let in some of all Professions, that
+goe the Primrose way to th' euerlasting Bonfire.
+
+Knock.
+
+Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.
+Enter Macduff, and Lenox.
+
+  Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed,
+That you doe lye so late?
+  Port. Faith Sir, we were carowsing till the second Cock:
+And Drinke, Sir, is a great prouoker of three things
+
+   Macd. What three things does Drinke especially
+prouoke?
+  Port. Marry, Sir, Nose-painting, Sleepe, and Vrine.
+Lecherie, Sir, it prouokes, and vnprouokes: it prouokes
+the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore
+much Drinke may be said to be an Equiuocator with Lecherie:
+it makes him, and it marres him; it sets him on,
+and it takes him off; it perswades him, and dis-heartens
+him; makes him stand too, and not stand too: in conclusion,
+equiuocates him in a sleepe, and giuing him the Lye,
+leaues him
+
+   Macd. I beleeue, Drinke gaue thee the Lye last Night
+
+   Port. That it did, Sir, i'the very Throat on me: but I
+requited him for his Lye, and (I thinke) being too strong
+for him, though he tooke vp my Legges sometime, yet I
+made a Shift to cast him.
+Enter Macbeth.
+
+  Macd. Is thy Master stirring?
+Our knocking ha's awak'd him: here he comes
+
+   Lenox. Good morrow, Noble Sir
+
+   Macb. Good morrow both
+
+   Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?
+  Macb. Not yet
+
+   Macd. He did command me to call timely on him,
+I haue almost slipt the houre
+
+   Macb. Ile bring you to him
+
+   Macd. I know this is a ioyfull trouble to you:
+But yet 'tis one
+
+   Macb. The labour we delight in, Physicks paine:
+This is the Doore
+
+   Macd. Ile make so bold to call, for 'tis my limitted
+seruice.
+
+Exit Macduffe.
+
+  Lenox. Goes the King hence to day?
+  Macb. He does: he did appoint so
+
+   Lenox. The Night ha's been vnruly:
+Where we lay, our Chimneys were blowne downe,
+And (as they say) lamentings heard i'th' Ayre;
+Strange Schreemes of Death,
+And Prophecying, with Accents terrible,
+Of dyre Combustion, and confus'd Euents,
+New hatch'd toth' wofull time.
+The obscure Bird clamor'd the liue-long Night.
+Some say, the Earth was Feuorous,
+And did shake
+
+   Macb. 'Twas a rough Night
+
+   Lenox. My young remembrance cannot paralell
+A fellow to it.
+Enter Macduff.
+
+  Macd. O horror, horror, horror,
+Tongue nor Heart cannot conceiue, nor name thee
+
+   Macb. and Lenox. What's the matter?
+  Macd. Confusion now hath made his Master-peece:
+Most sacrilegious Murther hath broke ope
+The Lords anoynted Temple, and stole thence
+The Life o'th' Building
+
+   Macb. What is't you say, the Life?
+  Lenox. Meane you his Maiestie?
+  Macd. Approch the Chamber, and destroy your sight
+With a new Gorgon. Doe not bid me speake:
+See, and then speake your selues: awake, awake,
+
+Exeunt. Macbeth and Lenox.
+
+Ring the Alarum Bell: Murther, and Treason,
+Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolme awake,
+Shake off this Downey sleepe, Deaths counterfeit,
+And looke on Death it selfe: vp, vp, and see
+The great Doomes Image: Malcolme, Banquo,
+As from your Graues rise vp, and walke like Sprights,
+To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell.
+
+Bell rings. Enter Lady.
+
+  Lady. What's the Businesse?
+That such a hideous Trumpet calls to parley
+The sleepers of the House? speake, speake
+
+   Macd. O gentle Lady,
+'Tis not for you to heare what I can speake:
+The repetition in a Womans eare,
+Would murther as it fell.
+Enter Banquo.
+
+O Banquo, Banquo, Our Royall Master's murther'd
+
+   Lady. Woe, alas:
+What, in our House?
+  Ban. Too cruell, any where.
+Deare Duff, I prythee contradict thy selfe,
+And say, it is not so.
+Enter Macbeth, Lenox, and Rosse.
+
+  Macb. Had I but dy'd an houre before this chance,
+I had liu'd a blessed time: for from this instant,
+There's nothing serious in Mortalitie:
+All is but Toyes: Renowne and Grace is dead,
+The Wine of Life is drawne, and the meere Lees
+Is left this Vault, to brag of.
+Enter Malcolme and Donalbaine.
+
+  Donal. What is amisse?
+  Macb. You are, and doe not know't:
+The Spring, the Head, the Fountaine of your Blood
+Is stopt, the very Source of it is stopt
+
+   Macd. Your Royall Father's murther'd
+
+   Mal. Oh, by whom?
+  Lenox. Those of his Chamber, as it seem'd, had don't:
+Their Hands and Faces were all badg'd with blood,
+So were their Daggers, which vnwip'd, we found
+Vpon their Pillowes: they star'd, and were distracted,
+No mans Life was to be trusted with them
+
+   Macb. O, yet I doe repent me of my furie,
+That I did kill them
+
+   Macd. Wherefore did you so?
+  Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temp'rate, & furious,
+Loyall, and Neutrall, in a moment? No man:
+Th' expedition of my violent Loue
+Out-run the pawser, Reason. Here lay Duncan,
+His Siluer skinne, lac'd with His Golden Blood,
+And his gash'd Stabs, look'd like a Breach in Nature,
+For Ruines wastfull entrance: there the Murtherers,
+Steep'd in the Colours of their Trade; their Daggers
+Vnmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refraine,
+That had a heart to loue; and in that heart,
+Courage, to make's loue knowne?
+  Lady. Helpe me hence, hoa
+
+   Macd. Looke to the Lady
+
+   Mal. Why doe we hold our tongues,
+That most may clayme this argument for ours?
+  Donal. What should be spoken here,
+Where our Fate hid in an augure hole,
+May rush, and seize vs? Let's away,
+Our Teares are not yet brew'd
+
+   Mal. Nor our strong Sorrow
+Vpon the foot of Motion
+
+   Banq. Looke to the Lady:
+And when we haue our naked Frailties hid,
+That suffer in exposure; let vs meet,
+And question this most bloody piece of worke,
+To know it further. Feares and scruples shake vs:
+In the great Hand of God I stand, and thence,
+Against the vndivulg'd pretence, I fight
+Of Treasonous Mallice
+
+   Macd. And so doe I
+
+   All. So all
+
+   Macb. Let's briefely put on manly readinesse,
+And meet i'th' Hall together
+
+   All. Well contented.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+  Malc. What will you doe?
+Let's not consort with them:
+To shew an vnfelt Sorrow, is an Office
+Which the false man do's easie.
+Ile to England
+
+   Don. To Ireland, I:
+Our seperated fortune shall keepe vs both the safer:
+Where we are, there's Daggers in mens smiles;
+The neere in blood, the neerer bloody
+
+   Malc. This murtherous Shaft that's shot,
+Hath not yet lighted: and our safest way,
+Is to auoid the ayme. Therefore to Horse,
+And let vs not be daintie of leaue-taking,
+But shift away: there's warrant in that Theft,
+Which steales it selfe, when there's no mercie left.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+
+Scena Quarta.
+
+Enter Rosse, with an Old man.
+
+  Old man. Threescore and ten I can remember well,
+Within the Volume of which Time, I haue seene
+Houres dreadfull, and things strange: but this sore Night
+Hath trifled former knowings
+
+   Rosse. Ha, good Father,
+Thou seest the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act,
+Threatens his bloody Stage: byth' Clock 'tis Day,
+And yet darke Night strangles the trauailing Lampe:
+Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes shame,
+That Darknesse does the face of Earth intombe,
+When liuing Light should kisse it?
+  Old man. 'Tis vnnaturall,
+Euen like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last,
+A Faulcon towring in her pride of place,
+Was by a Mowsing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd
+
+   Rosse. And Duncans Horses,
+(A thing most strange, and certaine)
+Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race,
+Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their stalls, flong out,
+Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they would
+Make Warre with Mankinde
+
+   Old man. 'Tis said, they eate each other
+
+   Rosse. They did so:
+To th' amazement of mine eyes that look'd vpon't.
+Enter Macduffe.
+
+Heere comes the good Macduffe.
+How goes the world Sir, now?
+  Macd. Why see you not?
+  Ross. Is't known who did this more then bloody deed?
+  Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slaine
+
+   Ross. Alas the day,
+What good could they pretend?
+  Macd. They were subborned,
+Malcolme, and Donalbaine the Kings two Sonnes
+Are stolne away and fled, which puts vpon them
+Suspition of the deed
+
+   Rosse. 'Gainst Nature still,
+Thriftlesse Ambition, that will rauen vp
+Thine owne liues meanes: Then 'tis most like,
+The Soueraignty will fall vpon Macbeth
+
+   Macd. He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone
+To be inuested
+
+   Rosse. Where is Duncans body?
+  Macd. Carried to Colmekill,
+The Sacred Store-house of his Predecessors,
+And Guardian of their Bones
+
+   Rosse. Will you to Scone?
+  Macd. No Cosin, Ile to Fife
+
+   Rosse. Well, I will thither
+
+   Macd. Well may you see things wel done there: Adieu
+Least our old Robes sit easier then our new
+
+   Rosse. Farewell, Father
+
+   Old M. Gods benyson go with you, and with those
+That would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes.
+
+Exeunt. omnes
+
+Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
+
+Enter Banquo.
+
+  Banq. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
+As the weyard Women promis'd, and I feare
+Thou playd'st most fowly for't: yet it was saide
+It should not stand in thy Posterity,
+But that my selfe should be the Roote, and Father
+Of many Kings. If there come truth from them,
+As vpon thee Macbeth, their Speeches shine,
+Why by the verities on thee made good,
+May they not be my Oracles as well,
+And set me vp in hope. But hush, no more.
+
+Senit sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Lenox, Rosse, Lords,
+and
+Attendants.
+
+  Macb. Heere's our chiefe Guest
+
+   La. If he had beene forgotten,
+It had bene as a gap in our great Feast,
+And all-thing vnbecomming
+
+   Macb. To night we hold a solemne Supper sir,
+And Ile request your presence
+
+   Banq. Let your Highnesse
+Command vpon me, to the which my duties
+Are with a most indissoluble tye
+For euer knit
+
+   Macb. Ride you this afternoone?
+  Ban. I, my good Lord
+
+   Macb. We should haue else desir'd your good aduice
+(Which still hath been both graue, and prosperous)
+In this dayes Councell: but wee'le take to morrow.
+Is't farre you ride?
+  Ban. As farre, my Lord, as will fill vp the time
+'Twixt this, and Supper. Goe not my Horse the better,
+I must become a borrower of the Night,
+For a darke houre, or twaine
+
+   Macb. Faile not our Feast
+
+   Ban. My Lord, I will not
+
+   Macb. We heare our bloody Cozens are bestow'd
+In England, and in Ireland, not confessing
+Their cruell Parricide, filling their hearers
+With strange inuention. But of that to morrow,
+When therewithall, we shall haue cause of State,
+Crauing vs ioyntly. Hye you to Horse:
+Adieu, till you returne at Night.
+Goes Fleance with you?
+  Ban. I, my good Lord: our time does call vpon's
+
+   Macb. I wish your Horses swift, and sure of foot:
+And so I doe commend you to their backs.
+Farwell.
+
+Exit Banquo.
+
+Let euery man be master of his time,
+Till seuen at Night, to make societie
+The sweeter welcome:
+We will keepe our selfe till Supper time alone:
+While then, God be with you.
+
+Exeunt. Lords.
+
+Sirrha, a word with you: Attend those men
+Our pleasure?
+  Seruant. They are, my Lord, without the Pallace
+Gate
+
+   Macb. Bring them before vs.
+
+Exit Seruant.
+
+To be thus, is nothing, but to be safely thus
+Our feares in Banquo sticke deepe,
+And in his Royaltie of Nature reignes that
+Which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
+And to that dauntlesse temper of his Minde,
+He hath a Wisdome, that doth guide his Valour,
+To act in safetie. There is none but he,
+Whose being I doe feare: and vnder him,
+My Genius is rebuk'd, as it is said
+Mark Anthonies was by Caesar. He chid the Sisters,
+When first they put the Name of King vpon me,
+And bad them speake to him. Then Prophet-like,
+They hayl'd him Father to a Line of Kings.
+Vpon my Head they plac'd a fruitlesse Crowne,
+And put a barren Scepter in my Gripe,
+Thence to be wrencht with an vnlineall Hand,
+No Sonne of mine succeeding: if't be so,
+For Banquo's Issue haue I fil'd my Minde,
+For them, the gracious Duncan haue I murther'd,
+Put Rancours in the Vessell of my Peace
+Onely for them, and mine eternall Iewell
+Giuen to the common Enemie of Man,
+To make them Kings, the Seedes of Banquo Kings.
+Rather then so, come Fate into the Lyst,
+And champion me to th' vtterance.
+Who's there?
+Enter Seruant, and two Murtherers.
+
+Now goe to the Doore, and stay there till we call.
+
+Exit Seruant.
+
+Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
+  Murth. It was, so please your Highnesse
+
+   Macb. Well then,
+Now haue you consider'd of my speeches:
+Know, that it was he, in the times past,
+Which held you so vnder fortune,
+Which you thought had been our innocent selfe.
+This I made good to you, in our last conference,
+Past in probation with you:
+How you were borne in hand, how crost:
+The Instruments: who wrought with them:
+And all things else, that might
+To halfe a Soule, and to a Notion craz'd,
+Say, Thus did Banquo
+
+   1.Murth. You made it knowne to vs
+
+   Macb. I did so:
+And went further, which is now
+Our point of second meeting.
+Doe you finde your patience so predominant,
+In your nature, that you can let this goe?
+Are you so Gospell'd, to pray for this good man,
+And for his Issue, whose heauie hand
+Hath bow'd you to the Graue, and begger'd
+Yours for euer?
+  1.Murth. We are men, my Liege
+
+   Macb. I, in the Catalogue ye goe for men,
+As Hounds, and Greyhounds, Mungrels, Spaniels, Curres,
+Showghes, Water-Rugs, and Demy-Wolues are clipt
+All by the Name of Dogges: the valued file
+Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
+The House-keeper, the Hunter, euery one
+According to the gift, which bounteous Nature
+Hath in him clos'd: whereby he does receiue
+Particular addition, from the Bill,
+That writes them all alike: and so of men.
+Now, if you haue a station in the file,
+Not i'th' worst ranke of Manhood, say't,
+And I will put that Businesse in your Bosomes,
+Whose execution takes your Enemie off,
+Grapples you to the heart; and loue of vs,
+Who weare our Health but sickly in his Life,
+Which in his Death were perfect
+
+   2.Murth. I am one, my Liege,
+Whom the vile Blowes and Buffets of the World
+Hath so incens'd, that I am recklesse what I doe,
+To spight the World
+
+   1.Murth. And I another,
+So wearie with Disasters, tugg'd with Fortune,
+That I would set my Life on any Chance,
+To mend it, or be rid on't
+
+   Macb. Both of you know Banquo was your Enemie
+
+   Murth. True, my Lord
+
+   Macb. So is he mine: and in such bloody distance,
+That euery minute of his being, thrusts
+Against my neer'st of Life: and though I could
+With bare-fac'd power sweepe him from my sight,
+And bid my will auouch it; yet I must not,
+For certaine friends that are both his, and mine,
+Whose loues I may not drop, but wayle his fall,
+Who I my selfe struck downe: and thence it is,
+That I to your assistance doe make loue,
+Masking the Businesse from the common Eye,
+For sundry weightie Reasons
+
+   2.Murth. We shall, my Lord,
+Performe what you command vs
+
+   1.Murth. Though our Liues-
+  Macb. Your Spirits shine through you.
+Within this houre, at most,
+I will aduise you where to plant your selues,
+Acquaint you with the perfect Spy o'th' time,
+The moment on't, for't must be done to Night,
+And something from the Pallace: alwayes thought,
+That I require a clearenesse; and with him,
+To leaue no Rubs nor Botches in the Worke:
+  Fleans , his Sonne, that keepes him companie,
+Whose absence is no lesse materiall to me,
+Then is his Fathers, must embrace the fate
+Of that darke houre: resolue your selues apart,
+Ile come to you anon
+
+   Murth. We are resolu'd, my Lord
+
+   Macb. Ile call vpon you straight: abide within,
+It is concluded: Banquo, thy Soules flight,
+If it finde Heauen, must finde it out to Night.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Secunda.
+
+Enter Macbeths Lady, and a Seruant.
+
+  Lady. Is Banquo gone from Court?
+  Seruant. I, Madame, but returnes againe to Night
+
+   Lady. Say to the King, I would attend his leysure,
+For a few words
+
+   Seruant. Madame, I will.
+Enter.
+
+  Lady. Nought's had, all's spent.
+Where our desire is got without content:
+'Tis safer, to be that which we destroy,
+Then by destruction dwell in doubtfull ioy.
+Enter Macbeth.
+
+How now, my Lord, why doe you keepe alone?
+Of sorryest Fancies your Companions making,
+Vsing those Thoughts, which should indeed haue dy'd
+With them they thinke on: things without all remedie
+Should be without regard: what's done, is done
+
+   Macb. We haue scorch'd the Snake, not kill'd it:
+Shee'le close, and be her selfe, whilest our poore Mallice
+Remaines in danger of her former Tooth.
+But let the frame of things dis-ioynt,
+Both the Worlds suffer,
+Ere we will eate our Meale in feare, and sleepe
+In the affliction of these terrible Dreames,
+That shake vs Nightly: Better be with the dead,
+Whom we, to gayne our peace, haue sent to peace,
+Then on the torture of the Minde to lye
+In restlesse extasie.
+Duncane is in his Graue:
+After Lifes fitfull Feuer, he sleepes well,
+Treason ha's done his worst: nor Steele, nor Poyson,
+Mallice domestique, forraine Leuie, nothing,
+Can touch him further
+
+   Lady. Come on:
+Gentle my Lord, sleeke o're your rugged Lookes,
+Be bright and Iouiall among your Guests to Night
+
+   Macb. So shall I Loue, and so I pray be you:
+Let your remembrance apply to Banquo,
+Present him Eminence, both with Eye and Tongue:
+Vnsafe the while, that wee must laue
+Our Honors in these flattering streames,
+And make our Faces Vizards to our Hearts,
+Disguising what they are
+
+   Lady. You must leaue this
+
+   Macb. O, full of Scorpions is my Minde, deare Wife:
+Thou know'st, that Banquo and his Fleans liues
+
+   Lady. But in them, Natures Coppie's not eterne
+
+   Macb. There's comfort yet, they are assaileable,
+Then be thou iocund: ere the Bat hath flowne
+His Cloyster'd flight, ere to black Heccats summons
+The shard-borne Beetle, with his drowsie hums,
+Hath rung Nights yawning Peale,
+There shall be done a deed of dreadfull note
+
+   Lady. What's to be done?
+  Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck,
+Till thou applaud the deed: Come, seeling Night,
+Skarfe vp the tender Eye of pittifull Day,
+And with thy bloodie and inuisible Hand
+Cancell and teare to pieces that great Bond,
+Which keepes me pale. Light thickens,
+And the Crow makes Wing toth' Rookie Wood:
+Good things of Day begin to droope, and drowse,
+Whiles Nights black Agents to their Prey's doe rowse.
+Thou maruell'st at my words: but hold thee still,
+Things bad begun, make strong themselues by ill:
+So prythee goe with me.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Tertia.
+
+Enter three Murtherers.
+
+  1. But who did bid thee ioyne with vs?
+  3. Macbeth
+
+   2. He needes not our mistrust, since he deliuers
+Our Offices, and what we haue to doe,
+To the direction iust
+
+   1. Then stand with vs:
+The West yet glimmers with some streakes of Day.
+Now spurres the lated Traueller apace,
+To gayne the timely Inne, and neere approches
+The subiect of our Watch
+
+   3. Hearke, I heare Horses
+
+   Banquo within. Giue vs a Light there, hoa
+
+   2. Then 'tis hee:
+The rest, that are within the note of expectation,
+Alreadie are i'th' Court
+
+   1. His Horses goe about
+
+   3. Almost a mile: but he does vsually,
+So all men doe, from hence toth' Pallace Gate
+Make it their Walke.
+Enter Banquo and Fleans, with a Torch.
+
+  2. A Light, a Light
+
+   3. 'Tis hee
+
+   1. Stand too't
+
+   Ban. It will be Rayne to Night
+
+   1. Let it come downe
+
+   Ban. O, Trecherie!
+Flye good Fleans, flye, flye, flye,
+Thou may'st reuenge. O Slaue!
+  3. Who did strike out the Light?
+  1. Was't not the way?
+  3. There's but one downe: the Sonne is fled
+
+   2. We haue lost
+Best halfe of our Affaire
+
+   1. Well, let's away, and say how much is done.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scaena Quarta.
+
+Banquet prepar'd. Enter Macbeth, Lady, Rosse, Lenox, Lords, and
+Attendants.
+
+  Macb. You know your owne degrees, sit downe:
+At first and last, the hearty welcome
+
+   Lords. Thankes to your Maiesty
+
+   Macb. Our selfe will mingle with Society,
+And play the humble Host:
+Our Hostesse keepes her State, but in best time
+We will require her welcome
+
+   La. Pronounce it for me Sir, to all our Friends,
+For my heart speakes, they are welcome.
+Enter first Murtherer.
+
+  Macb. See they encounter thee with their harts thanks
+Both sides are euen: heere Ile sit i'th' mid'st,
+Be large in mirth, anon wee'l drinke a Measure
+The Table round. There's blood vpon thy face
+
+   Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then
+
+   Macb. 'Tis better thee without, then he within.
+Is he dispatch'd?
+  Mur. My Lord his throat is cut, that I did for him
+
+   Mac. Thou art the best o'th' Cut-throats,
+Yet hee's good that did the like for Fleans:
+If thou did'st it, thou art the Non-pareill
+
+   Mur. Most Royall Sir
+Fleans is scap'd
+
+   Macb. Then comes my Fit againe:
+I had else beene perfect;
+Whole as the Marble, founded as the Rocke,
+As broad, and generall, as the casing Ayre:
+But now I am cabin'd, crib'd, confin'd, bound in
+To sawcy doubts, and feares. But Banquo's safe?
+  Mur. I, my good Lord: safe in a ditch he bides,
+With twenty trenched gashes on his head;
+The least a Death to Nature
+
+   Macb. Thankes for that:
+There the growne Serpent lyes, the worme that's fled
+Hath Nature that in time will Venom breed,
+No teeth for th' present. Get thee gone, to morrow
+Wee'l heare our selues againe.
+
+Exit Murderer.
+
+  Lady. My Royall Lord,
+You do not giue the Cheere, the Feast is sold
+That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making:
+'Tis giuen, with welcome: to feede were best at home:
+From thence, the sawce to meate is Ceremony,
+Meeting were bare without it.
+Enter the Ghost of Banquo, and sits in Macbeths place.
+
+  Macb. Sweet Remembrancer:
+Now good digestion waite on Appetite,
+And health on both
+
+   Lenox. May't please your Highnesse sit
+
+   Macb. Here had we now our Countries Honor, roof'd,
+Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present:
+Who, may I rather challenge for vnkindnesse,
+Then pitty for Mischance
+
+   Rosse. His absence (Sir)
+Layes blame vpon his promise. Pleas't your Highnesse
+To grace vs with your Royall Company?
+  Macb. The Table's full
+
+   Lenox. Heere is a place reseru'd Sir
+
+   Macb. Where?
+  Lenox. Heere my good Lord.
+What is't that moues your Highnesse?
+  Macb. Which of you haue done this?
+  Lords. What, my good Lord?
+  Macb. Thou canst not say I did it: neuer shake
+Thy goary lockes at me
+
+   Rosse. Gentlemen rise, his Highnesse is not well
+
+   Lady. Sit worthy Friends: my Lord is often thus,
+And hath beene from his youth. Pray you keepe Seat,
+The fit is momentary, vpon a thought
+He will againe be well. If much you note him
+You shall offend him, and extend his Passion,
+Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man?
+  Macb. I, and a bold one, that dare looke on that
+Which might appall the Diuell
+
+   La. O proper stuffe:
+This is the very painting of your feare:
+This is the Ayre-drawne-Dagger which you said
+Led you to Duncan. O, these flawes and starts
+(Impostors to true feare) would well become
+A womans story, at a Winters fire
+Authoriz'd by her Grandam: shame it selfe,
+Why do you make such faces? When all's done
+You looke but on a stoole
+
+   Macb. Prythee see there:
+Behold, looke, loe, how say you:
+Why what care I, if thou canst nod, speake too.
+If Charnell houses, and our Graues must send
+Those that we bury, backe; our Monuments
+Shall be the Mawes of Kytes
+
+   La. What? quite vnmann'd in folly
+
+   Macb. If I stand heere, I saw him
+
+   La. Fie for shame
+
+   Macb. Blood hath bene shed ere now, i'th' olden time
+Ere humane Statute purg'd the gentle Weale:
+I, and since too, Murthers haue bene perform'd
+Too terrible for the eare. The times has bene,
+That when the Braines were out, the man would dye,
+And there an end: But now they rise againe
+With twenty mortall murthers on their crownes,
+And push vs from our stooles. This is more strange
+Then such a murther is
+
+   La. My worthy Lord
+Your Noble Friends do lacke you
+
+   Macb. I do forget:
+Do not muse at me my most worthy Friends,
+I haue a strange infirmity, which is nothing
+To those that know me. Come, loue and health to all,
+Then Ile sit downe: Giue me some Wine, fill full:
+Enter Ghost.
+
+I drinke to th' generall ioy o'th' whole Table,
+And to our deere Friend Banquo, whom we misse:
+Would he were heere: to all, and him we thirst,
+And all to all
+
+   Lords. Our duties, and the pledge
+
+   Mac. Auant, & quit my sight, let the earth hide thee:
+Thy bones are marrowlesse, thy blood is cold:
+Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
+Which thou dost glare with
+
+   La. Thinke of this good Peeres
+But as a thing of Custome: 'Tis no other,
+Onely it spoyles the pleasure of the time
+
+   Macb. What man dare, I dare:
+Approach thou like the rugged Russian Beare,
+The arm'd Rhinoceros, or th' Hircan Tiger,
+Take any shape but that, and my firme Nerues
+Shall neuer tremble. Or be aliue againe,
+And dare me to the Desart with thy Sword:
+If trembling I inhabit then, protest mee
+The Baby of a Girle. Hence horrible shadow,
+Vnreall mock'ry hence. Why so, being gone
+I am a man againe: pray you sit still
+
+   La. You haue displac'd the mirth,
+Broke the good meeting, with most admir'd disorder
+
+   Macb. Can such things be,
+And ouercome vs like a Summers Clowd,
+Without our speciall wonder? You make me strange
+Euen to the disposition that I owe,
+When now I thinke you can behold such sights,
+And keepe the naturall Rubie of your Cheekes,
+When mine is blanch'd with feare
+
+   Rosse. What sights, my Lord?
+  La. I pray you speake not: he growes worse & worse
+Question enrages him: at once, goodnight.
+Stand not vpon the order of your going,
+But go at once
+
+   Len. Good night, and better health
+Attend his Maiesty
+
+   La. A kinde goodnight to all.
+
+Exit Lords.
+
+  Macb. It will haue blood they say:
+Blood will haue Blood:
+Stones haue beene knowne to moue, & Trees to speake:
+Augures, and vnderstood Relations, haue
+By Maggot Pyes, & Choughes, & Rookes brought forth
+The secret'st man of Blood. What is the night?
+  La. Almost at oddes with morning, which is which
+
+   Macb. How say'st thou that Macduff denies his person
+At our great bidding
+
+   La. Did you send to him Sir?
+  Macb. I heare it by the way: But I will send:
+There's not a one of them but in his house
+I keepe a Seruant Feed. I will to morrow
+(And betimes I will) to the weyard Sisters.
+More shall they speake: for now I am bent to know
+By the worst meanes, the worst, for mine owne good,
+All causes shall giue way. I am in blood
+Stept in so farre, that should I wade no more,
+Returning were as tedious as go ore:
+Strange things I haue in head, that will to hand,
+Which must be acted, ere they may be scand
+
+   La. You lacke the season of all Natures, sleepe
+
+   Macb. Come, wee'l to sleepe: My strange & self-abuse
+Is the initiate feare, that wants hard vse:
+We are yet but yong indeed.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scena Quinta.
+
+Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecat.
+
+  1. Why how now Hecat, you looke angerly?
+  Hec. Haue I not reason (Beldams) as you are?
+Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare
+To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,
+In Riddles, and Affaires of death;
+And I the Mistris of your Charmes,
+The close contriuer of all harmes,
+Was neuer call'd to beare my part,
+Or shew the glory of our Art?
+And which is worse, all you haue done
+Hath bene but for a wayward Sonne,
+Spightfull, and wrathfull, who (as others do)
+Loues for his owne ends, not for you.
+But make amends now: Get you gon,
+And at the pit of Acheron
+Meete me i'th' Morning: thither he
+Will come, to know his Destinie.
+Your Vessels, and your Spels prouide,
+Your Charmes, and euery thing beside;
+I am for th' Ayre: This night Ile spend
+Vnto a dismall, and a Fatall end.
+Great businesse must be wrought ere Noone.
+Vpon the Corner of the Moone
+There hangs a vap'rous drop, profound,
+Ile catch it ere it come to ground;
+And that distill'd by Magicke slights,
+Shall raise such Artificiall Sprights,
+As by the strength of their illusion,
+Shall draw him on to his Confusion.
+He shall spurne Fate, scorne Death, and beare
+His hopes 'boue Wisedome, Grace, and Feare:
+And you all know, Security
+Is Mortals cheefest Enemie.
+
+Musicke, and a Song.
+
+Hearke, I am call'd: my little Spirit see
+Sits in Foggy cloud, and stayes for me.
+
+Sing within. Come away, come away, &c.
+
+  1 Come, let's make hast, shee'l soone be
+Backe againe.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+
+Scaena Sexta.
+
+Enter Lenox, and another Lord.
+
+  Lenox. My former Speeches,
+Haue but hit your Thoughts
+Which can interpret farther: Onely I say
+Things haue bin strangely borne. The gracious Duncan
+Was pittied of Macbeth: marry he was dead:
+And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,
+Whom you may say (if't please you) Fleans kill'd,
+For Fleans fled: Men must not walke too late.
+Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous
+It was for Malcolme, and for Donalbane
+To kill their gracious Father? Damned Fact,
+How it did greeue Macbeth? Did he not straight
+In pious rage, the two delinquents teare,
+That were the Slaues of drinke, and thralles of sleepe?
+Was not that Nobly done? I, and wisely too:
+For 'twould haue anger'd any heart aliue
+To heare the men deny't. So that I say,
+He ha's borne all things well, and I do thinke,
+That had he Duncans Sonnes vnder his Key,
+(As, and't please Heauen he shall not) they should finde
+What 'twere to kill a Father: So should Fleans.
+But peace; for from broad words, and cause he fayl'd
+His presence at the Tyrants Feast, I heare
+Macduffe liues in disgrace. Sir, can you tell
+Where he bestowes himselfe?
+  Lord. The Sonnes of Duncane
+(From whom this Tyrant holds the due of Birth)
+Liues in the English Court, and is receyu'd
+Of the most Pious Edward, with such grace,
+That the maleuolence of Fortune, nothing
+Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduffe
+Is gone, to pray the Holy King, vpon his ayd
+To wake Northumberland, and warlike Seyward,
+That by the helpe of these (with him aboue)
+To ratifie the Worke) we may againe
+Giue to our Tables meate, sleepe to our Nights:
+Free from our Feasts, and Banquets bloody kniues;
+Do faithfull Homage, and receiue free Honors,
+All which we pine for now. And this report
+Hath so exasperate their King, that hee
+Prepares for some attempt of Warre
+
+   Len. Sent he to Macduffe?
+  Lord. He did: and with an absolute Sir, not I
+The clowdy Messenger turnes me his backe,
+And hums; as who should say, you'l rue the time
+That clogges me with this Answer
+
+   Lenox. And that well might
+Aduise him to a Caution, t' hold what distance
+His wisedome can prouide. Some holy Angell
+Flye to the Court of England, and vnfold
+His Message ere he come, that a swift blessing
+May soone returne to this our suffering Country,
+Vnder a hand accurs'd
+
+   Lord. Ile send my Prayers with him.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
+
+Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
+
+  1 Thrice the brinded Cat hath mew'd
+
+   2 Thrice, and once the Hedge-Pigge whin'd
+
+   3 Harpier cries, 'tis time, 'tis time
+
+   1 Round about the Caldron go:
+In the poysond Entrailes throw
+Toad, that vnder cold stone,
+Dayes and Nights, ha's thirty one:
+Sweltred Venom sleeping got,
+Boyle thou first i'th' charmed pot
+
+   All. Double, double, toile and trouble;
+Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
+
+   2 Fillet of a Fenny Snake,
+In the Cauldron boyle and bake:
+Eye of Newt, and Toe of Frogge,
+Wooll of Bat, and Tongue of Dogge:
+Adders Forke, and Blinde-wormes Sting,
+Lizards legge, and Howlets wing:
+For a Charme of powrefull trouble,
+Like a Hell-broth, boyle and bubble
+
+   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
+Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
+
+   3 Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolfe,
+Witches Mummey, Maw, and Gulfe
+Of the rauin'd salt Sea sharke:
+Roote of Hemlocke, digg'd i'th' darke:
+Liuer of Blaspheming Iew,
+Gall of Goate, and Slippes of Yew,
+Sliuer'd in the Moones Ecclipse:
+Nose of Turke, and Tartars lips:
+Finger of Birth-strangled Babe,
+Ditch-deliuer'd by a Drab,
+Make the Grewell thicke, and slab.
+Adde thereto a Tigers Chawdron,
+For th' Ingredience of our Cawdron
+
+   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,
+Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble
+
+   2 Coole it with a Baboones blood,
+Then the Charme is firme and good.
+Enter Hecat, and the other three Witches.
+
+  Hec. O well done: I commend your paines,
+And euery one shall share i'th' gaines:
+And now about the Cauldron sing
+Like Elues and Fairies in a Ring,
+Inchanting all that you put in.
+
+Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.
+
+  2 By the pricking of my Thumbes,
+Something wicked this way comes:
+Open Lockes, who euer knockes.
+Enter Macbeth.
+
+  Macb. How now you secret, black, & midnight Hags?
+What is't you do?
+  All. A deed without a name
+
+   Macb. I coniure you, by that which you Professe,
+(How ere you come to know it) answer me:
+Though you vntye the Windes, and let them fight
+Against the Churches: Though the yesty Waues
+Confound and swallow Nauigation vp:
+Though bladed Corne be lodg'd, & Trees blown downe,
+Though Castles topple on their Warders heads:
+Though Pallaces, and Pyramids do slope
+Their heads to their Foundations: Though the treasure
+Of Natures Germaine, tumble altogether,
+Euen till destruction sicken: Answer me
+To what I aske you
+
+   1 Speake
+
+   2 Demand
+
+   3 Wee'l answer
+
+   1 Say, if th'hadst rather heare it from our mouthes,
+Or from our Masters
+
+   Macb. Call 'em: let me see 'em
+
+   1 Powre in Sowes blood, that hath eaten
+Her nine Farrow: Greaze that's sweaten
+From the Murderers Gibbet, throw
+Into the Flame
+
+   All. Come high or low:
+Thy Selfe and Office deaftly show.
+Thunder. 1. Apparation, an Armed Head.
+
+  Macb. Tell me, thou vnknowne power
+
+   1 He knowes thy thought:
+Heare his speech, but say thou nought
+
+   1 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth:
+Beware Macduffe,
+Beware the Thane of Fife: dismisse me. Enough.
+
+He Descends.
+
+  Macb. What ere thou art, for thy good caution, thanks
+Thou hast harp'd my feare aright. But one word more
+
+   1 He will not be commanded: heere's another
+More potent then the first.
+
+Thunder. 2 Apparition, a Bloody Childe.
+
+  2 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth
+
+   Macb. Had I three eares, Il'd heare thee
+
+   Appar. Be bloody, bold, & resolute:
+Laugh to scorne
+The powre of man: For none of woman borne
+Shall harme Macbeth.
+
+Descends.
+
+  Mac. Then liue Macduffe: what need I feare of thee?
+But yet Ile make assurance: double sure,
+And take a Bond of Fate: thou shalt not liue,
+That I may tell pale-hearted Feare, it lies;
+And sleepe in spight of Thunder.
+
+Thunder 3 Apparation, a Childe Crowned, with a Tree in his hand.
+
+What is this, that rises like the issue of a King,
+And weares vpon his Baby-brow, the round
+And top of Soueraignty?
+  All. Listen, but speake not too't
+
+   3 Appar. Be Lyon metled, proud, and take no care:
+Who chafes, who frets, or where Conspirers are:
+Macbeth shall neuer vanquish'd be, vntill
+Great Byrnam Wood, to high Dunsmane Hill
+Shall come against him.
+
+Descend.
+
+  Macb. That will neuer bee:
+Who can impresse the Forrest, bid the Tree
+Vnfixe his earth-bound Root? Sweet boadments, good:
+Rebellious dead, rise neuer till the Wood
+Of Byrnan rise, and our high plac'd Macbeth
+Shall liue the Lease of Nature, pay his breath
+To time, and mortall Custome. Yet my Hart
+Throbs to know one thing: Tell me, if your Art
+Can tell so much: Shall Banquo's issue euer
+Reigne in this Kingdome?
+  All. Seeke to know no more
+
+   Macb. I will be satisfied. Deny me this,
+And an eternall Curse fall on you: Let me know.
+Why sinkes that Caldron? & what noise is this?
+
+Hoboyes
+
+  1 Shew
+
+   2 Shew
+
+   3 Shew
+
+   All. Shew his Eyes, and greeue his Hart,
+Come like shadowes, so depart.
+
+A shew of eight Kings, and Banquo last, with a glasse in his hand.
+
+  Macb. Thou art too like the Spirit of Banquo: Down:
+Thy Crowne do's seare mine Eye-bals. And thy haire
+Thou other Gold-bound-brow, is like the first:
+A third, is like the former. Filthy Hagges,
+Why do you shew me this? - A fourth? Start eyes!
+What will the Line stretch out to'th' cracke of Doome?
+Another yet? A seauenth? Ile see no more:
+And yet the eighth appeares, who beares a glasse,
+Which shewes me many more: and some I see,
+That two-fold Balles, and trebble Scepters carry.
+Horrible sight: Now I see 'tis true,
+For the Blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles vpon me,
+And points at them for his. What? is this so?
+  1 I Sir, all this is so. But why
+Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
+Come Sisters, cheere we vp his sprights,
+And shew the best of our delights.
+Ile Charme the Ayre to giue a sound,
+While you performe your Antique round:
+That this great King may kindly say,
+Our duties, did his welcome pay.
+
+Musicke. The Witches Dance, and vanish.
+
+  Macb. Where are they? Gone?
+Let this pernitious houre,
+Stand aye accursed in the Kalender.
+Come in, without there.
+Enter Lenox.
+
+  Lenox. What's your Graces will
+
+   Macb. Saw you the Weyard Sisters?
+  Lenox. No my Lord
+
+   Macb. Came they not by you?
+  Lenox. No indeed my Lord
+
+   Macb. Infected be the Ayre whereon they ride,
+And damn'd all those that trust them. I did heare
+The gallopping of Horse. Who was't came by?
+  Len. 'Tis two or three my Lord, that bring you word:
+Macduff is fled to England
+
+   Macb. Fled to England?
+  Len. I, my good Lord
+
+   Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
+The flighty purpose neuer is o're-tooke
+Vnlesse the deed go with it. From this moment,
+The very firstlings of my heart shall be
+The firstlings of my hand. And euen now
+To Crown my thoughts with Acts: be it thoght & done:
+The Castle of Macduff, I will surprize.
+Seize vpon Fife; giue to th' edge o'th' Sword
+His Wife, his Babes, and all vnfortunate Soules
+That trace him in his Line. No boasting like a Foole,
+This deed Ile do, before this purpose coole,
+But no more sights. Where are these Gentlemen?
+Come bring me where they are.
+
+Exeunt.
+
+Scena Secunda.
+
+Enter Macduffes Wife, her Son, and Rosse.
+
+  Wife. What had he done, to make him fly the Land?
+  Rosse. You must haue patience Madam
+
+   Wife. He had none:
+His flight was madnesse: when our Actions do not,
+Our feares do make vs Traitors
+
+   Rosse. You know not
+Whether it was his wisedome, or his feare
+
+   Wife. Wisedom? to leaue his wife, to leaue his Babes,
+His Mansion, and his Titles, in a place
+From whence himselfe do's flye? He loues vs not,
+He wants the naturall touch. For the poore Wren
+(The most diminitiue of Birds) will fight,
+Her yong ones 

<TRUNCATED>