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.

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

All. The wierd 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.

[Drum within.

Enter Macbeth and Banquo.

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,
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.

Mac.

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 shalt 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 shalt get kings, though thou be

none:

So, all hail, Macbeth, and Banquo!

1 Witch. Banquo, and Macbeth, all hail! Mac. 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 prophetick greeting?-Speak, I charge

you.

[Witches vanish. Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, 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

here?

Enter Rosse and Angus.

Rosse. 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' 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.

Ang. We are sent, To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; To herald thee into his sight, not pay thee.

Rosse. 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?
Mac. The thane of Cawdor lives; Why do you
dress me

In borrow'd robes?

Ang. Who was the thane, lives yet; But under heavy judgment bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was Combin'd with Norway; or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage; or that with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd, and prov'd, Have overthrown him.

Mac. 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, Promis'd 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.

Mac.
As happy prologues to the swelling act

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

Two truths are told,

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. Mac. If chance will have me king, why, chance

may crown me,

Without my stir.

Ban.

New honours come upon him Like our strange garments; cleave not to their

mould,

But with the aid of use.

Mac. Come what come may; Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. Ban. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. Mac. 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.