Where hast thou been, sister?

Killing swine.

Sister, where thou?

A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap,

And mounch’d, and mounch’d, and mounch’d. “Give me,” quoth I.

“Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed ronyon cries.

Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ th’ _Tiger:_

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.

I’ll give thee a wind.

Th’art kind.

And I another.

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 sev’n-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.

Show me, show me.

Here I have a pilot’s thumb,

Wrack’d as homeward he did come.

A drum, a drum!

Macbeth doth come.

The Weird Sisters, hand in hand,

Posters of the sea and land,

Thus do go about, about:

Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,

And thrice again, to make up nine.

Peace!—the charm’s wound up.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

How far is’t call’d to Forres?—What are these,

So wither’d, and so wild in their attire,

That look not like the inhabitants o’ th’ 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.

Speak, if you can;—what are you?

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!

All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter!

Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear

Things that do sound so fair?—I’ th’ 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.

Hail!

Hail!

Hail!

Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.

Not so happy, yet much happier.

Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:

So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!

Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

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?—Speak, I charge you.

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,

And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d?

Into the air; and what seem’d corporal,

Melted as breath into the wind.

Would they had stay’d!

Were such things here as we do speak about?

Or have we eaten on the insane root

That takes the reason prisoner?

Your children shall be kings.

You shall be king.

And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?

To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s here?

The King hath happily receiv’d, Macbeth,

The news of thy success, and when he reads

Thy personal venture in the rebels’ 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’ th’ selfsame 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 everyone did bear

Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence,

And pour’d them down before him.

We are sent

To give thee from our royal master thanks;

Only to herald thee into his sight,

Not pay thee.

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.

What, can the devil speak true?

The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me

In borrow’d robes?

Who was the Thane lives yet,

But under heavy judgement bears that life

Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin’d

With those of Norway, or did line the rebel

With hidden help and vantage, or that with both

He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not;

But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d,

Have overthrown him.

[_Aside._] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor:

The greatest is behind. [_To Ross and Angus._] Thanks for your pains.

[_To Banquo._] Do you not hope your children shall be kings,

When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me

Promis’d no less to them?

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’s

In deepest consequence.—

Cousins, a word, I pray you.

[_Aside._] Two truths are told,

As happy prologues to the swelling act

Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.—

[_Aside._] 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.

Look, how our partner’s rapt.

[_Aside._] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me

Without my stir.

New honours come upon him,

Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould

But with the aid of use.

[_Aside._] Come what come may,

Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.

Give me your favour. My dull brain was wrought

With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains

Are register’d where every day I turn

The leaf to read them.—Let us toward the King.—

Think upon what hath chanc’d; and at more time,

The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak

Our free hearts each to other.

Very gladly.

Till then, enough.—Come, friends.