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King. No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest:—Go, pronounce his present

death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. Macd. I'll see it done.

[Exeunt Macduff and Lenox. King. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. , • [Flourish of Trumpets and Drums.Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Heath.

Thunder and Lightning.

Enter the three Witches.

1 Witch. Where hast thou been, sister?

2 Witch. Killing swine.

3 Witch. Sister, where thou?

1 Witch. A sailor's wife had chesnuts in her lap, And mouncht, and mouncht, and mouncht:—" Give

me," quoth I. "Aroint thee, witch !" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o'the Tyger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do and I'll do.

2 Witch. I'll give thee a wind.
1 Witch. Thou art kind.

3 Witch. And I another.

1 Witch. I myself have all the other;
And the very ports they blow,
All the quarters that they know
I'the shipman's card.

I will drain him dry as hay:
Sleep shall, neither night nor day,
Hang upon his pent-house lid;
He shall live a man forbid:
Weary seven-nights, nine times nine,
Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine:
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tost.—
Look what I have.

2 Witch. Show me, show me. - .

1 Witch. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd, as homeward he did come.

[A March at a Distance.

3 Witch. A drum, a drum; Macbeth doth come.

All. The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about.

2 Witch. Thrice to thine,—

3 Witch. And thrice to mine,—
1 Witch. And thrice again,—
All. To make up nine.

1 Witch. Peace;—the charm's wound up.

Enter Macbeth, Banquo, and the Army.

Macb. Command they make a halt upon the heath.

[Within.] Halt,—halt,—halt.

Macb. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

Ban. How far is't call'd to Forest-- What are these, So wither'd, and so wild in their attire; That look not like the inhabitants o'the earth, And yet are on't?—Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips: You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.

Macb. Speak, if you can;—What are you?

1 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane

of Glamis!

2 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of

Cawdor!

3 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! that shall be king

hereafter. Ban. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to

fear Things that do sound so fair? I'the name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed, Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace, and great prediction Of noble having, and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal; to me you speak not: If you can look into the seeds of time, And say, which grain will grow, and which will

not; Speak then to me, who neither beg, nor fear, Your favours, nor your hate.

1 Witch. Hail!

2 Witch. Hail!

3 Witch. Hail!

1 Witch. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.

2 Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier.

3 Witch. Thou shaft get kings, though thou be

none.

All. So, all hail, Macbeth, and Banquo! Banquo, and Macbeth, all hail! [Going.

Macb. Stay,—you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death, I know, I am thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and, to be king, Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way

With such prophetic greeting ?-1

[Thunder and Lightning.Witches vanish. Speak, I charge you.

Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them:—Whither are they vanish'd?

Macb. Into the air; and what seemed corporal melted As breath into the wind.—'Would they had staid!

Ban. Were such things here, as we do speak about? Or have we eaten of the insane root, That takes the reason prisoner?

Macb. Your children shall be kings.

Ban. You shall be king.

Macb. And thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?

Ban. To the self-same tune, and words.—Who's here?

Enter Macduff and Lenox.

Macd. The king hath happily rcceiv'd, Macbeth,
The news of thy success: and, when he reads
Thy personal venture in the rebel's fight,
His wonders and his praises do contend,
Which should be thine or his: Silenc'd with that,
In viewing o'er the rest o'the self-same day,
He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,
Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make,
Strange images of death. As thick as tale,
Came post with post; and every one did bear
Thy praises in his kingdom's great defence,
And pour'd them down before him.

Len. We are sent,
To give thee, from our royal master, thanks;
Only to herald thee into his sight,
Not pay thee.

Macd. And, for an earnest of a greater honour,
He bade me, from him, call thee thane of Cawdor:
In which addition, hail, most worthy thane !
For it is thine.

Ban. What! can the devil speak true?

Macb. The thane of Cawdor lives; Why do you dress me In borrow'd robes?

Macd. Who was the thane, lives yet;
But under heavy judgment bears that life,
Which he deserves to lose;
For treasons capital, confess'd, and proved,
Have overthrown him.

Macb. Glamis, and thane of Cawdor:
The greatest is behind.—Thanks for your pains.—
Do you not hope your children shall be kings,
When those, that gave the thane of Cawdor to me,
Promised no less to them?

Ban. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the thane of Cawdor. But, 'tis strange: And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence.—Cousins, a word, I pray you.

Macb. Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.— This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good :—If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is, But what is not.

Ban. Look, how our partner's rapt.

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