Lady Macbeth | ||
SCENE IV.
MACBETH.He cows my spirit, like the midnight owl,
The fatal prophet of the battlements,
That in his airy cloister overhears
The cloud-carr'd angels, hailing, as they pass
On dismal purposes of destiny.—
Oh what avails all regal exhibition,
While fest'ring in my bosom lies, the guilt
Of Duncan's blood, and Banquo's feller doom.
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Nor all the ritual of the stone at Scoone
Can charm my eyes to innocent repose.
Lady Macbeth | ||