TEXT

PARAPHRASE

WHAT DOES THIS REVEAL ABOUT LADY MACBETH?

Act 1 Scene vii

What beast was't, then,
That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man.

 

 

Act I Scene vii

Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem;

 

 

 

Act I Scene vii

I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.

 

 

 

Act 1 Scene v

Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty!

 

 

 

Act II Scene ii

Infirm of purpose!

Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.

 

 

 

Act II Scene ii

Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd,
And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed,
Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss 'em.--Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done't

 

 

 

Act III Scene ii

Naught's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content:
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy.

 

 

 

Act III Scene iv

Sit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus,
And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat;
The fit is momentary;

 

I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse;
Question enrages him: at once, good-night:--
Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once.

 

 

 

Act IV

You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting,
With most admir'd disorder.

 

 

 

 

Act V Scene i

Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes
of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

 

 

 

Act V Scene i

Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so
pale:--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come
out on's grave.