Act II

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;

What hath quench’d them hath given me fire. Hark! Peace!

It was the owl that shriek’d, 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 drugg’d their possets,

That death and nature do contend about them,

Whether they live or die.

Who’s there? what, ho!

Alack, I am afraid they have awaked,

And ’tis not done. The attempt and not the deed

Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready;

He could not miss ’em. Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I had done’t.