Macbeth

by William Shakespeare

The nea’er in blood The nearer bloody.

I have lived long enough: my way of life Is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath Which the poor heart would fain deny and dare not.

How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies That keep her from her rest. MACBETH Cure her of that. 40 Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 20 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.