Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
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.
Macb. Enter a Messenger.
Macb. Thou com'st to vse thy Tongue: thy Story quickly.
Mes. Mes.
Mes. Gracious my Lord,