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Macb. Good repose, the while?
Ban. Thanks, sir; the like to you!

[Exeunt Fleance and BANQUO. Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is

ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.

Erit SEYTON.
Is this a dagger, which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch

thee:-
I have thee not; and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind; a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As that which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way

that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.--There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.—Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy

pace, Towards his design Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. [A Clock strikes Two.

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