Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abufe Whose howl's his watch, thus with his ftealthy pace, 5 With Tarquin's ravishing ftrides, tow'rds his defign Moves like a ghoft.-Thou found and firm fet earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very ftones prate of my where-about; round alarmed, and starts to find himself alone. One is the night of a lover, the other, of a murderer. 4 wither'd Murder, thus with his fealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing fides tour'd his defign, Moves like a ghoft.-] This was the reading of this paffage in all the editions before that of Mr. Pope, who for fides, inferted in the text frides, which Mr. Theobald has tacitly copied from him, tho' a more proper alteration might perhaps have been made. A ravishing fride is an action of violence, impetuoity, and tumult, like that of a favage rufhing on his prey; whereas the poet is here attempting to exhibit an image of fecrecy and caution, of anxious circumfpection and guilty timidity, the fealthy pace of a ravisher creeping into the chamber of a virgin, and of an affaffin approaching the bed of him whom he propofes to murder, without awaking him; thefe he defcribes as moving like ghosts, whofe pro greffion is fo different from firides, And that it has been in all ages reprefented to be, as Milton expreffes it, Smooth fliding without fep. This hemiftich will afford the true reading in this place, which is, I think, to be corrected thus: --And wither'd Murder, --thus with his ftealthy pace, With Tarquin ravishing, flides towr'd his defign, Moves like a ghost.Tarquin is in this place the general name of a ravisher, and the fenfe is, Now is the time in which every one is a-fleep, but thofe who are employed in wickednefs; the witch who is facrificing to Hecate, and the ravisher, and the murderer, who, like me, are ftealing upon their prey. When the reading is thus adjufted, he wishes with great propriety, in the following lines, that the earth may not bear bis fteps. s With Tarquin's ravishing Arides.] The juftnefs of this fimilitude is not very obvious. But a ftanza, in his pom of Turquin and Lucrece, will explain it. And take the present horrour from the time, Which now fuits with it.-Whilft I threat, he lives [A bell rings. Words gible, is, at leaft, obfcure, nor can be explained into any fenfe worthy of the author. I shall therefore propofe a flight alteration. Thou found and fum-fet earth, Hear not my feps, which way And talk-the prefent korrour of That now fuits with it.— Macbeth has, in the foregoing lines, difturbed his imagination by enumerating all the terrors of the night; at length he is wrought up to a degree of frenzy, that makes him afraid of fome fupernatural difcovery of his defign, and calls out to the ftones not to betray him, not to declare where he walks, nor to talk.---As he is going to fay of what, he difcovers the abfurdity of his fufpicion, and paufes, but is again overwhelmed by his guilt, and concludes, that such are the horrours of the prefent night, that the ftones may be expected to cry out against him. That now fuits with it. He obferves, in a fubfequent paffage, that on fuch occasions tones have been known to move. It is now a very juft and strong picture of a man about to commit a deliberate murder under the strongest convictions of the wickednels of his defign. Whether to take borrour from the Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 1 I go, and it is done; the bell invites me; That fummons thee to heaven, or to hell [Exit. SCEN E III. Enter Lady Macbeth. Lady. That which hath made them drunk, hath made me bold; What hath quench'd them, hath given me fire. Hark! peace! It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bell-man, Which gives the ftern'ft good-night-he is about it The doors are open; and the furfeited grooms Do mock their charge with fnores. I've drugg'd their That death and nature do contend about them, Enter Macbeth. Mach. Who's there?what ho! Lady, Alack! I am afraid, they have awak'd; And 'tis not done. Th' attempt and not the deed, Confounds us-hark-! I laid their daggers ready, He could not mifs 'em.- Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had don't-My husband! Mach. I've done the deed-didft thou not hear a noife? Lady. I heard the owl fcream, and the crickets cry, Did not you fpeak? Mach. When? Lady. Now. Mach. As I defcended! Lacy. Ay. Mach Hark!—who lies i'th' fecond chamber? Lady. Donalbein. Mach. This is a forry fight. [Looks on his bands. Lady. A foolish thought, to fay, a forry fight. Mack. There's one did laugh in's fleep, and one cry'd, Murther! They wak'd each other; and I stood and heard them; But they did fay their prayers, and addrefs them Again to fleep. Lady. There are two lodg'd together. Mach. One cry'd, God bless us! and Amen! the other; As they had feen me with these hangman's hands, Lady. Confider it not fo deeply. Matb. But wherefore could not I pronounce, Amen? I had most need of bleffing, and Amen Stuck in my throat. Lady. Thefe deeds must not be thought, After thefe ways; fo, it will make us mad. Mach. Methought, I heard a voice ery, Sleep no more! Macbeth doth murther Sleep; the innocent fleep; fions, for a moment, give way fkein of filk is called a fleeve of filk, as I learned from Mr. Stward, the ingenious editor of Beaumont and Fletcher. The The death of each day's life, fore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's fecond Course, Chief nourisher in life's feaft. Lady. What do you mean? Mach. Still it cry'd, fleep no more, to all the houfe; Glamis bath murther'd fleep. And therefore Cawdor Shall fleep no more; Macbeth fhall fleep no more! Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? Why, worthy Thane, You do unbend your noble ftrength, to think Mach. I'll go no more. I am afraid to think what I have done; Lady. Infirm of purpofe! Give me the daggers. The fleeping and the dead 9 The DEATH of each day's life, fore labour's bath, &c.] In this encomium upon fleep, amongst the many appellations which are given it, fignificant of its beneficence and friendliness to life, we find one which conveys a different idea, and by no means agrees with the reft, which is, The Death of each day's life.— I make no queftion but ShakeSpeare wrote, The birth of each day's life, The true characteristick of fleep, [Exit. |