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 gatekeeper of hell, he'd be turning the key plenty. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, in Belzebub's name? Here's a farmer who hanged himself because he expected a good harvest: you've come at the right moment; bring 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 a man who talks in double meanings, who could swear on both sides of a case against each side, who committed plenty of treason for God's sake, but couldn't twist his words his way into heaven: oh, come in, double-talker. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Honestly, here's an English tailor come here for stealing cloth out of a pair of French breeches: come in, tailor; here you can heat your pressing iron. [Knocking.] Knock, knock. Never any peace! Who are you?—But this place is too cold for hell. I won't play the devil's gatekeeper any longer: I meant to let in someone from every profession that goes along the flowery path to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Coming, coming! Please remember the porter with a tip.

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

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

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 encourager of three things.

What three things does drink especially provoke?

What three things does drink especially encourage?

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.

Why, sir, a red nose, sleep, and urine. Lust, sir, it encourages and discourages; it stirs up the desire, but it takes away the performance. So a lot of drink can be called a double-dealer with lust: it makes him, and it ruins him; it sets him going, and it stops him; it persuades him, and it puts him off; it makes him stand up, and not stand up; in the end, it cheats him into a sleep, and, having called him a liar, it 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 the insult; and, being too strong for him, I think, even though he tripped up my legs now and then, I still managed to throw him down.

Is thy master stirring?

Is your master up?

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, 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're glad to take; but it's still a trouble.

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

Work we enjoy cures the discomfort of it. This is the door.

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

I'll take the liberty of calling 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, so they say, wailing was heard in the air, strange screams of death, and voices prophesying in terrible tones about dreadful turmoil and confused events, newly hatched for this miserable age. The bird of darkness screeched all night long. Some say the earth had a fever, and shook.

’Twas a rough night.

It was a rough night.

My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it.

In all I can remember, young as I am, I can't match it with anything like it.

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

Oh, horror, horror, horror! No tongue or 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! The most sacrilegious murder has broken open the Lord's anointed temple, and stolen from it the life 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 say it. 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, death's imitation, and look at death itself! Up, up, and see the very 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 happening, that such a dreadful trumpet summons the sleepers of the house to a conference? 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, alas! 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, take back what you said, and tell me 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 worth taking seriously in human life. Everything is trivial: fame and goodness 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 source, 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, 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 one's life should have been trusted with them.

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

Oh, and yet I'm sorry now for the rage that made me kill 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 and stunned, calm and furious, loyal and impartial, all in one moment? No one. The haste of my violent love outran reason, which pauses. 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 come ruining in through: there were the murderers, soaked in the colours of their trade, their daggers indecently covered in gore as if wearing bloody breeches. Who could hold back, who had a heart to love, and in that heart the courage to show his love?

Help me hence, ho!

Help me out of here, someone!

Look to the lady.

Take care of the lady.

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

Why are we keeping quiet, when we have the greatest claim to this subject as ours?

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 doom, hidden in some tiny hole, may rush out and grab us? Let's go. Our tears aren't ready yet.

Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion.

And our deep grief isn't ready to start moving either.

Look to the lady:—

Take care of 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've covered our half-dressed bodies, which are suffering in the cold, let's meet and examine this most bloody piece of work to find out more about it. Fears and doubts are shaking us: I stand in the great hand of God; and from there I fight against the still-hidden plot 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 as men ready for action, and meet together in the hall.

Well contented.

We agree.

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 up with them: putting on a grief you don't feel is a job the liar 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.

I'll go to Ireland. Separating our fortunes will keep us both safer. Where we are, there are daggers in men's smiles: the closer in blood to us, the more likely to shed our blood.

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 theft in which you steal yourself away, when no mercy is left.