Act ii. Sc. 4.
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawked at, and killed.
Act iii. Sc, 1.
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,
And put a barren scepter in my gripe,
Thence to be wrenched with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine succeeding.
Act iii. Sc. 1.
_Mur_. We are men, my liege.
_Mac_. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men.
Act iii. Sc. 2.
We have scotched the snake, not killed it.
Act iii. Sc. 2.
Duncan is in his grave!
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
But now, I am cabined, cribbed, confined bound in
To saucy doubts and fears.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
Now good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both!
Act iii. Sc. 4.
Thou canst not say, I did it: never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with!
Act iii. Sc. 4.
What man dare, I dare.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder?
Act iv. Sc. 1.
Black spirits and white,
Red spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
You that mingle may.
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