Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them; Lady M. There are two lodged together. Macb. One cried, God bless us! and Amen! the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands Listening their fear. I could not say, Amen, When they did say, God bless us. Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce, Amen? I had most need of blessing, and Amen Stuck in my throat. Lady M. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more! MACBETH doth murder sleep-the innocent sleep Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast: Lady M. What do you mean? Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more, to all the house; Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more-MACBETH shal! sleep no more! Lady M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brain-sickly of things. Go, get some water, Macb. I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done: Look on't again, I dare not. Lady M. I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, Macb. [Exit. Knocking within. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appalls me? What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hands? No: this my hand will rather Making the green- one red. Lady M. [Entering.] My hands are of your color; but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking.] I hear a knocking At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber: little water clears us of this deed; ow easy is it, then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended. [Knocking.] Hark! more knocking: Get on your night-gown, lest occasion call us, And show us to be watchers. Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. Macb. To know my deed,-'twere best not know myself. -Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst. A WOMAN'S QUESTION.-ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. A woman's heart and a woman's life, And a woman's wonderful love? Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing Demanding what others have died to win, You have written my lesson of duty out, You require your mutton shall always be hot, You require a cook for your mutton and beef; I require a far better thing: A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts- A king for a beautiful realm called home, Shall look upon as he did the first, I am fair and young, but the rose will fade Will you love me then, 'mid the falling leaves, Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep A loving woman finds heaven or hell On the day she is made a bride. I require all things that are grand and true, If you give this all, I would stake my life If you cannot do this-a laundress and cook But a woman's heart and a woman's life Are not to be won that way. REPLY TO “A WOMAN'S QUESTION.”—PELHAM. You say I have asked for the costliest thing Ever made by the Hand above A woman's heart and a woman's life, That I have written your duty out, And, man-like, have questioned free,— You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul, While you in turn question me. And when I ask you to be my wife, The head of my house and home, Whose path I would scatter with sunshine through life, Thy shield when sorrow shall come You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip, And point to my coat's missing button, And haughtily ask if I want a cook, To serve up my beef and my mutton. Tis a king that you look for. Well, I am not he, But only a plain, earnest man, Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread, Often shrink from the gulf they should span. 'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade From the cheek so full, so fair Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold Was ever reflected there. True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall, And the Autumn of life will come; But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May, Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true; Ah! lady, my truth, in return, doubt not, MR. ROOTLE'S ECONOMY. 66 "My dear Rootle," says my wife to me, one day, “our kitchen needs painting." "Does it, my duck?" I replied, blandly but firmly. "Well, it must want it; for I assure you Hester Rootle, that the accruing 'spons' do not warrant the outlay at present." I saw that she was unhappy, and knew that she would not relinquish her point. William Henry," said she, a few days thereafter, "I have thought of an expedient by which we can have our kitchen painted." Her face lighted up as she spoke. She is a woman for expedients, is Mrs. Rootle. "You can do it yourself!" continued she, touching me with the point of her fore-finger in the region of my fourth vest button. "A pound saved," said she, still further, "is as good as a pound earned, you know." I looked with admiration on that wonderful specimen of her sex as she said this, and "allowed" (as western people say) to myself that, as an economist, she had no peer. And well I might allow it; for at the very moment were her shoulders covered by a sort of monkey-jacket made of one of my wornout coats, and a pair of galligaskins had assumed the form of a basque, and were worn by a juvenile Rootle. "Your suggestion," says I to my wife, "is a good one; and to-morrow shall develop a new phase in my character. I will turn artist, and give the world evidence of a talent that needed but the Promethean spark of necessity to draw it out. I will procure pots and brushes, and Michael Angelo, Raphael, Salvator Rosa, and Claude Lorraine shall yield the palm to Rootle." Hester was delighted. "Mr. Rootle," said my wife in the night, as I was about settling into my solid nap, "you'd better make it pale green." "Do what?" said I, starting up, forgetting all about the painting. "The paint," replied she. I am afraid that I used some expression of spleen that was unworthy of me. I turned over to try to sleep again. "Mr. Rootle," said my wife, "Don't you think the window-sills would look better some other color?" "Any color you please, my dear," said I; "but let us dismiss the subject from present discussion, as this is no place for a brush." I carried my point, as she had her paint, and I was EEEE allowed to sleep. But I was all night dreaming of my undertaking. No roseate hues mingled with my sleeping fancies, fraught with the odors of celestial bowers; but paintpots were piled in pyramids about me-brush-handles, like boarding pikes, I encountered everywhere, and a villainous smell of raw paint almost suffocated me. I was up with the lark, and after breakfast went down to Chrome, the painter's, to procure my paint. That eminent professor of art mixed me two pots of the right article, of hues that were of a satisfactory shade, and I went home with anticipations of the most exalted character. "William Henry," said my wife, "you have dreadfully daubed your light trousers with the paint-strange that you should be so careless." Sure enough, on both sides I had bestowed impartial donations of the adhering color. The trousers were new, and I had congratulated myself on their being a wonderful fit. This was a discouragement. "William Henry," said my wife," you'd better put on an old pair." I have always boasted of my ability to compete with anybody in the particular property known as old clothes. I knew that the decayed fashion of many years hung by their allotted pegs in the closet which had been facetiously denominated "the wardrobe," and hastened to procure the garment desired. In the name of all the tribes of Israel, where were the bifurcated teguments that for years had met my view? The pegs were bare; and my first impression was, that they had taken to their own legs and walked away. "Hester," said I to my wife, on the top of the stairs, and at the top of my lungs, "where are thethe-garments?" I heard her say something about “sold,” and concluded that she was trying some little trick upon me, as wives sometimes will, and was adopting the formula so much in vogue for expressing it. She came up stairs. "William Henry," said she, "I declare I sold all of your old clothes only yesterday, for a beautiful pair of vases and some tin ware." I looked at her earnestly; but the evident calmness that prevailed in her own breast softened and subdued the violence in mine. "You'd better put on this," said she, holding up an article of female apparel, the name of which I disremember, but which, when secured to my waist, as I recollect, fell to my feet. She smiled as she placed it in my |