Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
Poems of Tragedy: X. ScotlandThe Murder
William Shakespeare (15641616)L
What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark!—Peace!
It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern’st good night. He is about it:
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
Do mark their charge with snores: I have drugged their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.
M
L
And ’t is not done:—the attempt and not the deed
Confounds us.—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss them.—Had he not resembled
My father, as he slept, I had done ’t.—My husband!
L
Did not you speak?
M
L
M
L
M
Who lies i’ the second chamber?
L
M
L
M
That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them:
But they did say their prayers, and addressed them
Again to sleep.
L
M
As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, “Amen,”
When they did say, “God bless us.”
L
M
I had most need of blessing, and “Amen”
Stuck in my throat.
L
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
M
Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast,—
L
M
“Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!”
L
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things.—Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.
M
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on ’t again, I dare not.
L
Give me the daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures: ’t is the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I ’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal;
For it must seem their guilt.[Exit. Knocking within.
M
How is ’t with me, when every noise appalls me?
What hands are here! Ha! they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green—one red.
To wear a heart so white.(Knocking.)I hear a knocking
At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber:
A little water clears us of this deed:
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended.(Knocking.)Hark, more knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers:—be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.
M
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst.