"The Tragedy of Macbeth" by William Shakespeare, Act III

Thou hast it now—King, Cawdor, Glamis, all As the Weïrd Women promised, and I fear Thou played’st most foully for ’t. Yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity, But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings.

If there come truth from them (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine) Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope?

If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast And all-thing unbecoming.

Let your Highness Command upon me, to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie Forever knit.

Go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night For a dark hour or twain.

Ay, in the catalogue you go for men, As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs.

The valued file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him closed

Now, if you have a station in the file, Not i’ th’ worst rank of manhood, say ’t, And I will put that business in your bosoms Whose execution takes your enemy off Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect.

I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world.

And though I could With barefaced power sweep him from my sight And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not

And thence it is, That I to your assistance do make love, Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons.

Duncan is in his grave. After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.

Treason has done his worst; nor steel nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing Can touch him further.

Let your remembrance Apply to Banquo; present him eminence Both with eye and tongue

There's comfort yet; they are assailable.

Then be thou jocund.

Ere the bat hath flown His cloistered flight, ere to black Hecate’s summons The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums Hath rung night’s yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note.

Now spurs the lated traveler apace To gain the timely inn, and near approaches The subject of our watch.

Both sides are even. Here I’ll sit i’ th’ midst. Be large in mirth. Anon we’ll drink a measure The table round.

Thou art the best o’ th’ cutthroats, Yet he’s good that did the like for Fleance. If thou didst it, thou art the nonpareil.

But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.

Ay, my good lord. Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenchèd gashes on his head, The least a death to nature.

If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites.

I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me.

You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe When now I think you can behold such sights And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks When mine is blanched with fear.

You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe When now I think you can behold such sights And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks When mine is blanched with fear.

It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs and understood relations have By maggot pies and choughs and rooks brought forth The secret’st man of blood.

I will tomorrow (And betimes I will) to the Weïrd Sisters. More shall they speak, for now I am bent to know By the worst means the worst.

I am in blood Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er.

And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never called to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art?

And which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you.

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear.

How it did grieve Macbeth! Did he not straight In pious rage the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep?

The son of Duncan (From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth) Lives in the English court and is received Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect.

The son of Duncan (From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth) Lives in the English court and is received Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect.

Thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king upon his aid To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward That, by the help of these (with Him above To ratify the work), we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage, and receive free honors, All which we pine for now.

Thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king upon his aid To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward That, by the help of these (with Him above To ratify the work), we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage, and receive free honors, All which we pine for now.

Thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king upon his aid To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward That, by the help of these (with Him above To ratify the work), we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage, and receive free honors, All which we pine for now.

And this report Hath so exasperate the King that he Prepares for some attempt of war.

He did, and with an absolute “Sir, not I,” The cloudy messenger turns me his back And hums, as who should say “You’ll rue the time That clogs me with this answer.”