The Bodleian First Folio

I haue too Nights watch'd with you, but can

perceiue no truth in your report. When was it shee last

walk'd ?

Since his Maiesty went into the Field, I haue

seene her rise from her bed, throw her Night‑Gown vp­

pon her, vnlocke her Closset, take foorth paper, folde it,

write vpon't, read it, afterwards Seale it, and againe re­

turne to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleepe.

A great perturbation in Nature, to receyue at

once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching.

In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other

actuall performances, what (at any time) haue you heard

her say?

Neither to you, nor any one, hauing no witnesse

to confirme my speech.

Lo you, heere she comes: This is her very guise, and vp­

on my life fast asleepe: obserue her, stand close.

How came she by that light?

Why it stood by her: she ha's light by her con­

tinually, 'tis her command.

You see her eyes are open.

I but their sense are shut.

It is an accustom'd action with her, to seeme

thus washing her hands: I haue knowne her continue in

this a quarter of an houre.

Heark, she speaks, I will set downe what comes

from her, to satisfie my remembrance the more strongly.

Out damned spot: out I say. One: Two: Why

then 'tis time to doo't: Hell is murky. Fye, my Lord, fie,

a Souldier, and affear'd? what need we feare? who knowes

it, when none can call our powre to accompt: yet who

would haue thought the olde man to haue had so much

blood in him.

The Thane of Fife, had a wife: where is she now?

What will these hands ne're be cleane? No more o'that

my Lord, no more o'that: you marre all with this star­

ting.

She ha's spoke what shee should not, I am sure

of that: Heauen knowes what she ha's knowne.

Heere's the smell of the blood still: all the per­

fumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

Oh, oh, oh.

I would not haue such a heart in my bosome,

for the dignity of the whole body.

This disease is beyond my practise: yet I haue

knowne those which haue walkt in their sleep, who haue

dyed holily in their beds.

Wash your hands, put on your Night‑Gowne,

looke not so pale: I tell you yet againe Banquo's buried;

he cannot come out on's graue.

To bed, to bed: there's knocking at the gate:

Come, come, come, come, giue me your hand: What's

done, cannot be vndone. To bed, to bed, to bed.