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Macb. Good repose, the while? Ban. Thanks, sir; the like to you! [Ereunt FLEANce and BAN quo. Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Erit Seyton. Is this a dagger, which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee: I have thee not; and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind; a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As that which now I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood, Which was not so before.—There's no such thing: It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes.—Now o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder, Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, Towards his design Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. [A Clock strikes Two.

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