Macbeth by William Shakespeare (top ten books of all time .TXT) 📕

thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do. Second Witch I’ll give thee a wind. First Witch Thou’rt kind. Third Witch And I another. First Witch

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 se’nnights 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.

Second Witch Show me, show me. First Witch

Here I have a pilot’s thumb,
Wreck’d as homeward he did come. Drum within.

Third 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.

Enter Macbeth and Banquo. Macbeth So foul and fair a day I have not seen. Banquo

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’ 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.

Macbeth Speak, if you can: what are you? First Witch All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis! Second Witch All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, thane of Cawdor! Third Witch All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter! Banquo

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.

First Witch Hail! Second Witch Hail! Third Witch Hail! First Witch Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. Second Witch Not so happy, yet much happier. Third Witch

Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!

First Witch Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! Macbeth

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. Witches vanish.

Banquo

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d?

Macbeth

Into the air; and what seem’d corporal melted
As breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d!

Banquo

Were such things here as we do speak about?
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?

Macbeth Your children shall be kings. Banquo You shall be king. Macbeth And thane of Cawdor too: went it not so? Banquo To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s here? Enter Ross and Angus. Ross

The king hath happily received, 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: silenced with that,
In viewing o’er the rest o’ the selfsame day,
He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,
Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make,
Strange images of death. As thick as hail
Came post with post; and every one did bear
Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence,
And pour’d them down before him.

Angus

We are sent
To give thee from our royal master thanks;
Only to herald thee into his sight,
Not pay thee.

Ross

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.

Banquo What, can the devil speak true? Macbeth

The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me
In borrow’d robes?

Angus

Who was the thane lives yet;
But under heavy judgment bears that life
Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined
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 wreck, I know not;
But treasons capital, confess’d and proved,
Have overthrown him.

Macbeth

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
Promised no less to them?

Banquo

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.

Macbeth

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.

Banquo Look, how our partner’s rapt. Macbeth

Aside. If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me,
Without my stir.

Banquo

New honours come upon him,
Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould
But with the aid of use.

Macbeth

Aside. Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

Banquo Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. Macbeth