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Len. What a haste looks through his eyes ? So

should he look,
That seems to speak things strange.

Rosse. God save the king !
King. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane ?

Rosse. From Fife, great king,
Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky,
And fan our people cold.
Norway himself, with terrible numbers,
Assisted by that most disloyal traitor
The thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict :
?Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapt in proof,
Confronted him with self-comparisons,
Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm,
Curbing his lavish spirit: and to conclude,
The victory fell on us;

King. Great happiness!

Rosse. That now
Sweno, the Norway's king, craves composition ;
Nor would we deign him burial of his men,
Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes' inch,
Ten thousand dollars to our general use.

King. No more that thane of Cawder shall deceive Qurbosom interest.-Go, pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth.

Rosse. I'll see it done.
King. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.




Thunder. 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 1.
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.

Witch. And I another.
1 Witch. I myself have all the other;
And the very points they blow,
All the quarters that they know
l' 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. Shew me, shew me.

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

[Drum within. 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;
Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
And thrice again, to make up nine :
Peace !--the charm's wound up.



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

Ban. How far is't call'd to Fores ? What are these,
So wither'd, and so wild in their attire;
That look not like the inhabitants o'the earth, 130
And yet are on't?-Live you ? or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand

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.

Mac. Speak, if you can ;--what are you?
1 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of

Glamis !

2 Witch. Are ye


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

Cawdor! 3 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter,

140 Ban. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair ?-I' the name of truth,

fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye shew? 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 you 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 shalt get kings, though thou be none : So, all hail, Macbeth, and Banquo ! 1 Witch. Banquo, and Macbeth, all hail !

159 Mac. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death, I know, I am thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdord 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 Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetick greeting ?-Speak, I charge you.

[Witches vanish. Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, 169 And these are of them :- Whither are they vanish'd ? Mac. Into the air ; and what seem'd 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?

Mac. Your children shall be kings.
Ban. You shall be king.
Mac. And thane of Cawdor too; went it not so ?
Ban. To the self-same tune, and words. Who's


Enter Rosse and ANGUS.

Rosse. The king hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, 180 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 afraid 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,

190 And pour'd them down before him,


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