Please consider upgrading your browser software or enabling style sheets CSS if you are able to do so. This page has been archived and is no longer updated. Find out more about page archiving. Macbeth c. Shakespeare's Macbeth bears little resemblance to the real 11th century Scottish king. World War One Centenary. An overview of Macbeth , a play shrouded in mystery and superstition so rife that, to this day, some fear uttering its name in the theater. This free series of audience enrichment programs offers introductory and in-depth studies of ideas embodied in the play.
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- Macbeth (c.1005 - 1057).
- Macbeth Summary.
- Macbeth (c.1005 - 1057)?
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Parking and Directions. First time visiting The Yard? I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid: Weary se'nnights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have. Second Witch Show me, show me. First Witch Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. Drum within. Are not Those in commission yet return'd? But I have spoke With one that saw him die: who did report That very frankly he confess'd his treasons, Implored your highness' pardon and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me 'Thane of Cawdor;' by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be! Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.
Summary of Macbeth | Shakespeare Birthplace Trust
Enter a Messenger. Hautboys and torches. BANQUO This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, The air is delicate. Enter a Sewer, and divers Servants with dishes and service, and pass over the stage. But in these cases We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips.
He's here in double trust; First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.
I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other. Court of Macbeth's castle. There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep: merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. The attempt and not the deed Confounds us. I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em.
Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't. Knocking within. Enter a Porter Porter Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. ROSS Ah, good father, Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock, 'tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp: Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it?
Old Man 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. ROSS And Duncan's horses--a thing most strange and certain-- Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind.
Old Man 'Tis said they eat each other. Here comes the good Macduff. The palace. If there come truth from them-- As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine-- Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush! Sennet sounded.
Servant Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. Servant Madam, I will. Enter three Murderers First Murderer But who did bid thee join with us? Third Murderer Macbeth. Second Murderer He needs not our mistrust, since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. First Murderer Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: Now spurs the lated traveller apace To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch. Third Murderer Hark! I hear horses. Second Murderer Then 'tis he: the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i' the court.
First Murderer His horses go about. Third Murderer Almost a mile: but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. Second Murderer A light, a light! A banquet prepared. Lords Thanks to your majesty. Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time We will require her welcome. First Murderer appears at the door. How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art?
And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you.