Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, REJECTED ADDRESSES: MACBETH, BY MOMUS MEDLAR, by JAMES SMITH (1775-1839)

Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

First Line: Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell
Last Line: Ri fol de rol, &c.
Subject(s): Dramatists; Life; Poetry & Poets; Shakespeare, William (1564-1616)

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell
(She knows that my purpose is cruel),
I'd thank her to tingle her bell
As soon as she's heated my gruel.
Go, get thee to bed and repose --
To sit up so late is a scandal;
But ere you have ta'en off your clothes,
Be sure that you put out that candle.
Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.

My stars, in the air here's a knife! --
I'm sure it can not be a hum;
I'll catch at the handle, add's life!
And then I shall not cut my thumb.
I've got him! -- no, at him again!
Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes;
This must be some blade of the brain --
Those witches are given to hoax.

I've one in my pocket, I know,
My wife left on purpose behind her;
She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,
The poor Caledonian grinder.
I see thee again! o'er thy middle
Large drops of red blood now are spill'd,
Just as much as to say, diddle diddle,
Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd.

It leads to his chamber, I swear;
I tremble and quake every joint --
No dog at the scent of a hare
Ever yet made a cleverer point.
Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw --
Give me blinkers, to save me from starting;
The knife that I thought that I saw
Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.

Now o'er this terrestrial hive
A life paralytic is spread;
For while the one half is alive,
The other is sleepy and dead.
King Duncan, in grand majesty,
Has got my state-bed for a snooze;
I've lent him my slippers, so I
May certainly stand in his shoes.

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales!
Ye, feet, rouse no echo in walking!
For though a dead man tells no tales,
Dead walls are much given to talking,
This knife shall be in at the death --
I'll stick him, then off safely get!
Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,
For he'd ne'er stick at any thing yet.

Hark, hark! 'tis the signal, by goles!
It sounds like a funeral knell;
O, near it not, Duncan! it tolls
To call thee to heaven or hell.
Or if you to heaven won't fly,
But rather prefer Pluto's ether,
Only wait a few years till I die,
And we'll go to the devil together.
Ri fol de rol, &c.

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