Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 3

Here’s a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Belzebub? Here’s a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you’ll sweat for’t. [Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ th’ other devil’s name? Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? Faith, here’s an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose. [Knocking.] Knock, knock. Never at quiet! What are you?—But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to th’ everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter.

That's some knocking! If a man were the doorkeeper of hell's gate, he'd have plenty of turning the key to do. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, in the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer who hanged himself because he expected a big harvest: you've come at the right time; make sure you have enough handkerchiefs with you; here you'll sweat for it. [Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Honestly, here's an equivocator, who could swear on both sides of the scales against either side, who committed treason enough for God's sake, and yet could not equivocate his way into heaven. Oh, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Honestly, here's an English tailor come here for stealing cloth out of a pair of French hose: come in, tailor; here you can heat up your pressing iron. [Knocking.] Knock, knock. Never any peace! What are you?—But this place is too cold to be hell. I won't play devil's doorkeeper any longer: I meant to let in some of every profession, the ones who take the primrose path to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Coming, coming! Please, don't forget a tip for the porter.

Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late?

Was it so late when you went to bed, friend, that you're lying in bed so late now?

Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.

Honestly, sir, we were drinking until the second cockcrow; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.

What three things does drink especially provoke?

What three things does drink especially provoke?

Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him.

Well, sir, a red nose, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and it unprovokes: it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. So a lot of drink can be called an equivocator with lechery: it makes him and it ruins him; it sets him going and it takes him off; it persuades him and it discourages him; it makes him stand up and not stand up; in the end it equivocates him into a sleep and, calling him a liar, leaves him.

I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.

I think drink called you a liar last night.

That it did, sir, i’ the very throat on me; but I requited him for his lie; and (I think) being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him.

It did, sir, right in my throat; but I paid him back for his lie; and, being too strong for him I think, though he tripped up my legs a few times, I still managed to throw him.

Is thy master stirring?

Is your master up and about?

Our knocking has awak’d him; here he comes.

Our knocking has woken him; here he comes.

Good morrow, noble sir!

Good morning, noble sir!

Good morrow, both!

Good morning to you both!

Is the King stirring, worthy thane?

Is the King up yet, worthy thane?

Not yet.

Not yet.

He did command me to call timely on him. I have almost slipp’d the hour.

He ordered me to call on him early. I've nearly missed the hour.

I’ll bring you to him.

I'll take you to him.

I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet ’tis one.

I know this is a trouble you enjoy; but it's a trouble all the same.

The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door.

Work we take pleasure in cures the pain of it. This is the door.

I’ll make so bold to call. For ’tis my limited service.

I'll be bold enough to call him, since that's the duty assigned to me.

Goes the King hence today?

Is the King leaving here today?

He does. He did appoint so.

He is. He arranged it that way.

The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down and, as they say, Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death, And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus’d events, New hatch’d to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamour’d the live-long night. Some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake.

The night has been wild: where we were sleeping, our chimneys were blown down and, they say, wailing was heard in the air, strange screams of death, and voices prophesying in terrible tones of dreadful turmoil and confused events, newly hatched for this sorrowful time. The bird of darkness screeched all night long. Some say the earth was feverish and shook.

’Twas a rough night.

It was a rough night.

My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it.

My young memory can't find another one to match it.

O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!

Oh horror, horror, horror! Neither tongue nor heart can imagine you or give you a name!

What’s the matter?

What's the matter?

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence The life o’ th’ building.

Destruction has now made its masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder has broken open the Lord's anointed temple and stolen the life out of the building.

What is’t you say? the life?

What are you saying? The life?

Mean you his majesty?

Do you mean his majesty?

Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak. See, and then speak yourselves.

Go into the bedroom and destroy your eyesight with a new Gorgon. Don't ask me to speak. Look, and then speak for yourselves.

Awake, awake!— Ring the alarum bell.—Murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, And look on death itself! Up, up, and see The great doom’s image. Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror!

Wake up, wake up! Ring the alarm bell. Murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! Wake up! Throw off this soft sleep, that imitation of death, and look at death itself! Get up, get up, and see the image of Judgement Day. Malcolm! Banquo! Rise up as if from your graves and walk like ghosts to match this horror!

What’s the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!

What's going on, that such a horrible trumpet calls the sleepers of the house to a parley? Speak, speak!

O gentle lady, ’Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman’s ear, Would murder as it fell.

Oh, gentle lady, what I have to say is not for you to hear. Repeating it in a woman's ear would kill her as it landed.

O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master’s murder’d!

Oh Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master has been murdered!

Woe, alas! What, in our house?

How terrible, no! What, in our house?

Too cruel anywhere.— Dear Duff, I pr’ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so.

Too cruel anywhere. Dear Duff, please, contradict yourself and say it isn't so.

Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.

If only I had died an hour before this happened, I would have lived a blessed life; because from this moment on there's nothing of any importance in human life. Everything is just trifles: honour and grace are dead; the wine of life has been drawn off, and only the dregs are left for this cellar to boast about.

What is amiss?

What's wrong?

You are, and do not know’t: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d.

You are, and you don't know it: the spring, the head, the fountain of your blood has been stopped; the very source of it has been stopped.

Your royal father’s murder’d.

Your royal father has been murdered.

O, by whom?

Oh, by whom?

Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done’t: Their hands and faces were all badg’d with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip’d, we found Upon their pillows. They star’d, and were distracted; No man’s life was to be trusted with them.

The men of his bedchamber, so it seemed, had done it: their hands and faces were all marked with blood; so were their daggers, which we found unwiped on their pillows. They stared, and were out of their wits; no man's life was safe with them.

O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them.

Oh, and yet I regret my rage, that I killed them.

Wherefore did you so?

Why did you do that?

Who can be wise, amaz’d, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: Th’ expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood; And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech’d with gore. Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make’s love known?

Who can be wise, stunned, calm, and furious, loyal and impartial, all in one moment? No one. The rush of my violent love outran reason, which pauses to think. Here lay Duncan, his silver skin trimmed with his golden blood; and his gaping stab wounds looked like a breach in nature for destruction to enter and lay waste: over there were the murderers, soaked in the colours of their trade, their daggers rudely clothed with gore. Who could hold back, who had a heart to love, and in that heart the courage to show that love?

Help me hence, ho!

Help me out of here, someone!

Look to the lady.

Look after the lady.

Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours?

Why are we keeping quiet, when this subject is ours to claim more than anyone's?

What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let’s away. Our tears are not yet brew’d.

What is there to say here, where our own fate, hidden in some tiny hole, may rush out and grab us? Let's get away. Our tears aren't ready yet.

Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion.

And our deep grief isn't ready to move either.

Look to the lady:—

Look after the lady—

And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight Of treasonous malice.

And when we have covered our bare bodies, which are suffering from being exposed, let's meet and examine this most bloody piece of work to find out more about it. Fears and doubts shake us. I stand in the great hand of God, and from there I fight against the still-hidden purpose of treasonous malice.

And so do I.

And so do I.

So all.

So do we all.

Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i’ th’ hall together.

Let's quickly get dressed like men and meet together in the hall.

Well contented.

Gladly agreed.

What will you do? Let’s not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England.

What will you do? Let's not join company with them. Putting on a sorrow you don't feel is a job the false man does easily. I'll go to England.

To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are, There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody.

And I to Ireland. Separating our fortunes will keep us both safer. Where we are, there are daggers in men's smiles: the closer in blood, the closer to shedding it.

This murderous shaft that’s shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away. There’s warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.

This murderous arrow that's been shot hasn't landed yet; and our safest course is to get out of its line. So, to horse; and let's not be fussy about saying goodbye, but slip away. There's justification for that kind of stealing away when there's no mercy left.