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To whom does this
refer?
He's here in double trust:
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself.
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Who is speaking here?
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold.
What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark, peace!
-
It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it.
The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores. I have drugged their
possets
That death and nature do contend about them
Whether they live or die.
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Who is speaking here?
Thou hast it now: King, Cawdor, Glamis, all
As the weird women promised; and I fear
Thou played'st most foully for 't. Yet it was said
It should not stand in thy posterity,
But that myself should be the root and father
Of many kings
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We hear our bloody cousins are
bestowed
In England and in Ireland, not confessing
Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers
With strange invention.
Which "bloody cousin" is in England?
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Which "bloody cousin" is in
Ireland?
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Who is the son who is
fled?
There's but one down. The son is fled.
We have lost best half of our affair.
Well, let's away and say how much is done
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To whom is Macbeth
speaking?
Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
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Who is speaking?
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble
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Who is speaking?
Whither should I fly?
I have done no harm. But I remember now
I am in this earthly world, where to do harm
Is often laudable, to do good sometime
Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas,
Do I put up that womanly defence
To say I have done no harm?
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Who is speaking these
incredibly beautiful (but depressing) lines?
She should have died hereafter.
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing
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