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A Restoration Version of Act III 145 In how unsafe a posture are our honours That we must have recourse to flattery, And make our Faces Vizors to our hearts. La. Macb. You must leave this. Macb. How full of Scorpions is my mind? Dear wife Thou knowest that Banquo and his Flean lives. La. Macb. But they are not Immortal, there's comfort yet in that. Macb. Be merry then, for e're the Bat has flown His Cloyster'd flight ; e're to black Heccate's Summons, The sharp brow'd Beetle with his drowsie hums, Has rung nights second Peal : There shall be done a deed of dreadful Note. La. Macb. What is't? Macb. Be innocent of knowing it, my Dear, Till thou applaud the deed, come dismal Night Close up the Eye of the quick fighted Day With thy invisible and bloody hand. The Crow makes wing to the thick shady Grove, Good things of day grow dark and overcast, Whilst Nights black Agents to their Preys make hast, Thou wonder'st at my language, wonder still, Things ill begun, strengthen themselves by ill. (Exeunt. Enter three Murtherers. 1. Mur. The time is almost come, The West yet glimmers with some streaks of day, Now the benighted Traveller spurs on, To gain the timely Inn. 2. Mar. Hark, I hear Horses, and saw some body alight At the Park gate. 3. Mur. Then 'tis he ; the rest That are expected are i' th' Court already. 1. Mur. His horses go about almost a Mile,