I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell

That fummons thee to heaven, or to hell, (Exit.)

Lady M. That which hath made them drunk, hath made me bold;

༔

What hath quench'd them, hath given me fire:
Hark! Peace!..:

It was the owl that fhriek'd, the fatal bell-man,
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it:
The doors are open; and the furfeited grooms.....
Do mock their charge with fnores: I have drugg'd
their poffets,

That death and nature do contend about them,

Whether they live, or die.

Macb. (within) Who's there?

what, ho!

Lady M. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd,

And 'tis not done :

Confounds us:

the attempt, and not the deed, Hark! I laid their daggers ready

He could not miss them. Had he not resembled

My father as he flept, I had done't,

My husband?

Enter MACBETH.

I have done the deed: Didft thou not hear a

noife?

Lady M. I heard the owl fcream, and the crickets

Macb. Hark! Who lies in the second chamber?

Lady

7

Lady M. Donalbain.

Macb. This is a sorry fight. (Looking on his hands)
Lady M A foolish thought, to say a horry fight.
Mach. There's one did laugh in his fleep, and one
cry'd, murder!

That they did wake each other; I ftood and heard them;

But they did fay their prayers, and addrefs'd them
Again to fleep.

Lady M. There are two lodg'd together.

Mach. One cry'd, God blefs us! and, Amen, the

As they had seen me,

other;

with these hangman's hands,

Listening their fear. I could not say, Amen,

When they did fay, God bless us.

Lady M. Confider it not fo deeply.

Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce,
Amen?

I had moft need of bleffing, and Amen

Stuck in my throat.

Lady M. These deeds muft not be thought

After these ways; fo, it will make us inad.

Macb. Methought, I heard a voice cry, Sleep no

more!

Macbeth does murder fleep, the innocent fleep;

Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd fleave of care,

The death of each day's life, fore labour's bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature's fecond course,
Chief nourisher in life's feaft; -

Lady M. What do you mean?

Mach. Still it cryd,

Sleep no more! to all the
houfe:

Glamis hath murder'd fleep; and therefore Cawdor
Shall fleep no more, Macbeth fhall fleep no more!

Lady

Lady M. Who was it, that thus cry'd?

worthy thane,

You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brain-fickly of things: Go, get fome water,
And wash this filthy witness from hand.
your

Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: Go, carry them; and smear
The fleepy grooms with blood.

Macb. I'll go no more:

I am afraid to think what I have done;

Look on't again; I dare not.

Lady M. Infirm of purpose!

Give me the daggers: The fleeping, and the dead,

Are but as pictures: 'tis 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.)

Macb. Whence is that knocking?

How is't with me, when every noise appals 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 feas incarnardine,

Making the green one, red.

Re-enter Lady MACBETH.

Lady M. My hands are of your colour; but I

fhame

To wear a heart fo white. (Knock) I hear a knocking At the fouth entry: retire we to our chamber:

Get on your night-gown, left occafion call us,
And fhew us to be watchers: Be not loft

So poorly in your thoughts.

Mach. To know my deed, 'twere best not know

myself...

Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would, thou

Von diesem Dichter, dessen komische Werke oben angèr führt sind, hat man folgende Trauerspiele: Sejanus, his Fall-Catiline, his Confpiracy Mortimer's Fall. Auch in seinen zahlreichen Masken giebt es Scenen, diè mehr zur tragischen, als komischen Gättung zu rechnen sind. Aber den höhern, vollends den shakspearischen Charakter des Tragischen sucht man in Ben Jonson's Trauerspielen verz gebens, und findet statt dessen fast überall kalte, empfins dungsleere Deklamation, und unnüßen gelehrten Prunk. Aus dem Katiling, der wohl das beste der angeführten drei Stücke ist, lese man hier den leßtern Theil der dritten Scène des vierten Akt, worin Cicero vor dem versammelten Senat wider den Katiling eine umständliche und beredté Anklage vorgebracht hat, die fast ganz aus, seinen katilinärischen Res den gezogen ist:

Catilina. If an oration, or high language, Fathers, Could make me guilty; here is one has done it. He'as ftrove to emulate this Morning's thunder With his prodigious rhetorick. But I hope This Senate is more grave than to give credit Rafhly to all he vomits, 'gainst a man Of your own order; a Patrician;

And

And one whofe ancestors have more deserv'd

Of Rome than this man's eloquence could utter,
Turn'd the best way; as still it is the worst,

Cato. His eloquence has more deserv❜d to day,
Speaking thy Ill, than all thy ancestors
Did in their Good: and that the State will find,
Which he has fav'd

Catil. How, he? were I that Enemy

That he would make me, I'd not wish the State
More wretched than to need his preservation.
What do you make him, Cato, fuch a Hercules?
An Atlas? a poor petty Inmate!

Cato. Traitor!

Catil. He fave the State? a burgess'fon of Arpi

num!

The Gods would rather twenty Romes fhould perish,
Than have that contumely ftuck upon❜em

That he should share with them in the preserving
A Shed of Sign-post!

Catil. They would be forc'd themselves again, and

loft

In the first rude and indigested heap;
Ere fuch a wretched name as Cicero
Should found with theirs.

Cato. Away, thou impudent Head!

Catil. Do you all back him? are you Well, I will leave you, Fathers, I will go.

But my fine dainty Speaker

Cic. What now, Fury?

filent too?

Wilt thou affault me here?

Chor, Help, aid the Conful!