Yet, here's a spot
Out, I say!
Hell is murky!
Fie, my lord, fie!
A soldier, and afeard?
What need we fear who knows it
when none can call our power to account?
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?
The thane of Fife had a wife
Where is she now?
What, will these hands ne'er be clean?
No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that
You mar all with this starting
Here’s the smell of the blood still
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand
Oh, Oh, Oh!
Wash your hands
Put on your nightgown
Look not so pale
To bed, to bed!
There’s knocking at the gate
Come, come
come, come, give me your hand
What’s done cannot be undone
To bed, to bed
to bed!
To bed, to bed
to bed!