Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Macb. To heare a Night‑shrieke, and my Fell of haire
Macb. Would at a dismall Treatise rowze, and stirre
Macb. As life were in't. I haue supt full with horrors,
Macb. Direnesse familiar to my slaughterous thoughts
Macb. Cannot once start me. Wherefore was that cry?
Sey. Sey.
Sey. The Queene (my Lord) is dead.
Macb. Macb.
Macb. She should haue dy'de heereafter;
Macb. There would haue beene a time for such a word:
Macb. To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow,
Macb. Creepes in this petty pace from day to day,
Macb. To the last Syllable of Recorded time:
Macb. And all our yesterdayes, haue lighted Fooles
Macb. The way to dusty death. Out, out, breefe Candle,
Macb. Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player,
Macb. That struts and frets his houre vpon the Stage,
Macb. And then is heard no more. It is a Tale
Macb. Told by an Ideot, full of sound and fury
Macb. Signifying nothing.