Original
Modern English
How goes the night, boy?
How’s the night going, boy?
The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
The moon’s down; I haven’t heard the clock.
And she goes down at twelve.
And it goes down at twelve.
I take’t, ’tis later, sir.
I think it’s later, sir.
Hold, take my sword. There’s husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep: merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!
Wait, take my sword. There’s thrift in heaven; Their lights are all out. Take this too. A heavy feeling lies like lead on me, And still I can’t sleep: merciful powers, Keep the cursed thoughts that come with sleep From my mind!
Give me my sword. Who’s there?
Give me my sword. Who’s there?
A friend.
A friend.
What, sir, not yet at rest? The king’s a-bed: He hath been in unusual pleasure, and Sent forth great largess to your offices. This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up In measureless content.
What, sir, still not resting? The king’s in bed: He’s been unusually happy, and Has sent generous gifts to your people. This diamond is for your wife, Calling her the most kind hostess; and they’re All content beyond measure.
Being unprepared, Our will became the servant to defect; Which else should free have wrought.
Since I wasn’t prepared, Our plans became victims of mistakes; Which otherwise would have succeeded.
All’s well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show’d some truth.
Everything’s fine. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: They showed you some truth.
I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time.
I don’t think about them: But if we could spare an hour, I’d want to talk about that with you, If you’d give me the time.
At your kind’st leisure.
Whenever it’s most convenient for you.
If you shall cleave to my consent, when ’tis, It shall make honour for you.
If you agree to what I suggest, when the time comes, It will bring you honor.
So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchised and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell’d.
As long as I don’t lose anything By trying to gain more, but still keep My conscience clear and my loyalty intact, I’ll take your advice.
Good repose the while!
Rest well for now!
Thanks, sir: the like to you!
Thank you, sir: the same to you!
Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.
Go tell your mistress that when my drink is ready, She should ring the bell. Go to bed.
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 this which now I draw. Thou marshall’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 halfworld Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain’d sleep; 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. With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, 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 whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives: Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
Is this a dagger I see in front of me, The handle facing my hand? Come, let me grab you. I can’t hold you, and yet I still see you. Are you not, deadly vision, real To touch as well as to see? Or are you just A dagger from my imagination, a false creation, Coming from my fevered brain? I still see you, as solid As the one I am drawing now. You show me the way I was going; And this is the tool I was meant to use. My eyes must be fooling the rest of my senses, Or else they’re more important than all the others; I still see you, And on your blade and hilt are drops of blood, Which weren’t there before. There’s no such thing: It’s the bloody work that makes This vision come to my eyes. Now over half the world Nature seems dead, and evil dreams torment The sleep that’s meant to be peaceful; witchcraft performs Pale Hecate’s rituals, and withered murder, Alarmed by his lookout, the wolf, Whose howl serves as his watch, moves silently, Like the villainous Tarquin, towards his goal. Earth, firm and steady, Don’t hear my steps, wherever I go, for fear Your very stones will gossip about my whereabouts, And ruin the moment’s terror, Which suits it perfectly. While I speak, he lives: Words give too little energy for the actions to follow.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
I’m going, and it’s done; the bell is calling me. Don’t hear it, Duncan; for it’s a death bell That calls you either to heaven or to hell.