_"Come, come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; And fill me from the crown to the toe, top full Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse; That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief; come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell! That my keen knife see not the wound it makes; Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark!"_ This speech of the devilish Lady Macbeth made a deep impression on the audience, and caused the King to squirm in his throne chair at the contemplation of the murder of Duncan, but when William entered as Macbeth and rendered the following speech James wished himself a million miles away, and yet applauded to the echo the murdering thoughts of the Scottish chieftain: _"If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly. If the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, With his surcease, success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,-- We'd jump the life to come; but, in these cases We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague the inventor. This evenhanded justice Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice, To our own lips. 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 himself. Besides, this Duncan Hath born his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking off; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed Upon the sightless coursers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind; I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other!"_ Still brooding on the murder of Duncan, Macbeth says: