Norway himself, with terrible numbers, The thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; toto Point against point, rebellious arm 'gainst arm, Dun. Rosse. That now Great happiness! Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Till he disbursed at Saint Colmes' Inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use. Dun. No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive Go, pronounce his present death, Dun. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. SCENE III. [Exeunt. A Heath. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. 1 Witch. 2 Witch. Where hast thou been, sister? 3 Witch. Sister, where thou? 1 Witch. A sailor's wife had chesnuts in her lap, And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd: "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. 2 Witch. I'll give thee a wind. kn Give me, 1 1 Witch. I myself have all the other; I' the shipman's card. Cast du capulsion I'll drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall, neither night nor day, Hang upon his pent-house lid; aut ན་ hamar, You Weary sev'n-nights, nine times nine, Yet it shall be tempest-toss'd. bathew" 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! nou All. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Thus do go about, about: 6.44 Peace! the charm's wound up. a Enter MACBETH and BANQUo. Macb. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. - Ban. How far is 't call'd to Fores? What are these, That look not like th' inhabitants o' the earth, That man may question? You seem to understand me, 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? Macb. 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 tu sai Things that do sound so fair? I the name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed - Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not. aride Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. 1 Witch. 2 Witch. 3 Witch. So, all hail, quoique Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: 1 Witch. Banquo, and Macbeth, all hail! Macb. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinel's death, I know, I am thane of Glamis; No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence With such prophetic greeting? - Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish. Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Macb. Into the air; Whither are they vanish'd? on and what seem'd corporal, melted ne 'Would they had stay'd! Ban. Were such things here, as we do speak about, Or have we eaten on the insane root, Macb. Your children shall be kings. Ban. You shall be king. Macb. And thane of Cawdor too: went it not so? a Ban. To the self-same tune, and words. Who's here? Enter Ross 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, Which should be thine, or his. Silenc'd with that, 'hunt on silence. urageux In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day, vesavent We are sent, To give thee from our royal master thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, cendre comme des heracks Not pay thee. Rosse. And, for an earnest of a greater honour, For it is thine. Ban. What! can the devil speak true? Macò. 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 hidden help and vantage, or that with both 361 He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not; Have overthrown him. Macb. The greatest is behind. Glamis, and thane of Cawdor: Do Promis'd no less to them? Ban. That, trusted home, In deepest consequence. Macb. Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme. — I thank you, gentlemen. Cannot be ill; cannot be good : — if ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastica!,imern Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is, pres But what is not. A Macb. If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown Without my stir. Ban. me, New honours come upon him, |