Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly.

Have I not reason, beldams as you are,

Saucy and overbold? How did you dare

To trade and traffic with Macbeth

In riddles and affairs of death;

And I, the mistress of your charms,

The close contriver of all harms,

Was never call’d to bear my part,

Or show the glory of our art?

And, which is worse, all you have done

Hath been but for a wayward son,

Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do,

Loves for his own ends, not for you.

But make amends now: get you gone,

And at the pit of Acheron

Meet me i’ th’ morning: thither he

Will come to know his destiny.

Your vessels and your spells provide,

Your charms, and everything beside.

I am for th’ air; this night I’ll spend

Unto a dismal and a fatal end.

Great business must be wrought ere noon.

Upon the corner of the moon

There hangs a vap’rous drop profound;

I’ll catch it ere it come to ground:

And that, distill’d by magic sleights,

Shall raise such artificial sprites,

As, by the strength of their illusion,

Shall draw him on to his confusion.

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear

His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear.

And you all know, security

Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.

Hark! I am call’d; my little spirit, see,

Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me.

Come, let’s make haste; she’ll soon be back again.