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1. Witch. 2. Witch. 3 Witch. 1. Witch.

2 Witch.

All. 3 Witch.

All. 2 Witch.

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.

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Harper cries, 'Tis time, ’tis time.
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw:—
Toad, that under the cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first it the charmed pot.
Double, double toil and trouble:
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake:
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf;
Witches' mummy; maw, and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock, digg'd i' the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew,
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe,
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.
Double, double toil and trouble:
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood:
Then the charm is firm and good.


Enter HEcATE, and three other Witches.

Hec. O, well done! I commend your pains, And every one shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. [Music and a song. “Black spirits,” &c. 2 Witch. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.— [Knocking. Open, locks, whoever knocks.

Enter MAcBEth.

Macb. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is't you do? All. A deed without a name. Macb. I conjure you, by that which you profess, (Howe'er you come to know it) answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodged, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders' heads; Though palaces, and pyramids, do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature's germins tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken, answer me To what I ask you.

1. Witch. Speak. 2. Witch. Demand. 3 Witch. We'll answer.

1 Witch. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our

mouths, Or from our masters'? Macb. Call them: let me see them.

1 Witch. Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease, that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet, throw Into the flame.

All. Come high, or low; Thyself, and office, deftly show.

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And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live;
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,
And sleep in spite of thunder.—What is this,

Thunder. 3d Apparition, a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand.

That rises like the issue of a king;
And wears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty 2

All. Listen, but speak not to't.

App. Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chases, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him. [Descends.

Macb. That will never be : Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root! sweet bodements!


Rebellious head, rise never, till the wood
Of Birnam rise; and our high-plac'd Macbeth
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath
To time, and mortal custom.—Yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art
Can tell so much) shall Banquo's issue ever
Reign in this kingdom 7

All. Seek to know no more.

Macb. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.— Why sinks that cauldron 1 and what noise is this!


1. Witch. Show! 3 Witch. Show !

All. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart.

A show of eight Kings, and BANQuo last.

Macb. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down' Thy crown does searmine eye-balls:–and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first:— A third is like the former:—Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?—A fourth 2–Start, eves! What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet?—A seventh !—I'll see no more:And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass, Which shows me many more; and some I see, That two-fold balls and treble sceptres carry. Horrible sight!—Now, I see, 'tis true; For the blood-boltered Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.-What! is this so! 1 Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so : but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights. I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [Music. The Witches dance, and ranish. Macb. Where are they? Gone?—Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accurs'd in the calendar!— Come in without there!

2. Witch. Show!

Enter LENox. Len. What's your grace's will? Macb. Saw you the weird sisters? Len. No, my lord.

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L. Macd. What had he done to make him fly the land?

Rosse. You must have patience, madam.

L. Macd. He had none: His flight was madness. When our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.

Rosse. You know not, Whether it was his wisdom or his fear.

L. Macd. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave

his babes,

His mansion, and his titles, in a place
From whence himself does fly He loves us not:
He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren,
The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
All is the fear, and nothing is the love:
As little is the wisdom, where the flight
So runs against all reason.

Rosse. My dearest coz,
I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband,

e is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows The o the season. I dare not speak much fur


But cruel are the times, when we are traitors,
And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear,
But float upon a wild and violent sea,
Each way and move.—I take my leave of you:
Shall not be long but I'll be here again.
Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward

To what they were before.—My pretty cousin,
Blessing upon you!
L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's father-
Rosse. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer,
It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort.
I take my leave at once. [Erit RossE.
L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead:
And what will you do now ! How will you live?
Son. As birds do, mother.
L. Macb. What, with worms and flies?
Son. With what I get, I mean; and so do they.
L. Macd. Poor bird! thou'dst never fear the
net, nor lime,
The pit-fall, nor the gin.
Son. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they
are not set for.
My father is not dead, for all your saying.
L. Macd. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for
a father?
Son. Nay, how will you do for a husband?
L. M. Why, I can buy me twenty at any
Son. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again.
L. Macd. Thou speak'st with all thy wit;
And yet, i' faith, with wit enough for thee.
Son. Was my father a traitor, mother?
L. Macd. Ay, that he was.
Son. What is a traitor?
L. Macd. Why, one that swears and lies.
Son. And be all traitors that do so?
L. Macd. Every one that does so is a traitor,
and must be hanged.


Son. And must they all be hanged, that swear and lie L. Macd. Every one. Son. Who must hang them 7 L. Macd. Why, the honest men. Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools; for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men, and hang up them. L. Macd. Now God help thee, poor monkey ! But how wilt thou do for a father 1 Son. If he were dead, you’d weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. L. Macd. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st!

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Mal. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. Macd. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom. Each new morn, New widows howl, new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like syllable of dolour. Mal. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will: What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was ". thought honest: you have lov'd him well;

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grace, Yet grace must still look so. Macd. I have lost my hopes.

Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts.

Why in that rawness left you wife and child,
Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,
Without leave-taking?—I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,
But mine own safeties: you may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.

Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thy


The title is affeer'd '-Fare thee well, lord:
I would not be the villain that thou think'st,
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,
And the rich East to boot.

Mal. Be not offended :
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think our country sinks beneath the yoke :
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds: I think, withal,
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
And here, from gracious England, have I offer
Of goodly thousands; but, for all this,
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before,
More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.

Macd. What should he be!

Mal. It is myself I mean; in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted, That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd With my confineless harms.

Macd. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth.

Mal. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name; but there's no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust; and my desire All continent impediments would o'er-bear, That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth, Than such a one to reign.

Macd. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny: it hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet

To take upon you what is yours: you may

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Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,
And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you to devour so many
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclin'd.

Mal. With this, there grows
In my most ill-compos'd affection such
A stanchless avarice, that, were I king,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands;
Desire his jewels, and this other's house:
And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.

Macd. This avarice Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, Of your mere own. All these are portable With other graces weigh’d.

Mal. But I have none.


As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
I have no relish of them; but abound
In the division of each several crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.

Macd. O Scotland, Scotland'

Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken.

Macd. Fit to govern! No, not to live.—O, nation miserable ! With an untitled tyrant, bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accurs'd, And does blaspheme his breed —Thy royal father, Was a most sainted king: the queen, that bore thee, Oft'ner upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well. These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself Have banish'd me from Scotland.—O, my breast! Thy hope ends here.

Mal. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste; but God above Deal between thee and me, for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow, and delight No less in truth, than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself. What I am truly Is thine, and my poor country's, to command: Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, Already at a point, was setting forth.

The king-becoming

Now, we'll together; and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel. Why are you silent? Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once, 'Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

Mal. Well; more anon.—Comes the king forth, I pray you ?

Doct. Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls, That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend.

Mal. I thank you, doctor.

[Erit Doctor.

Macd. What's the disease he means !

Mal. 'Tis call'd the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king, Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. #. he solicits heaven, Heaven best knows: but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures: Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace.

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