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

What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state.

For brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name) Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel, Which smoked with bloody execution, Like Valor's minion carved out his passage

Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane?

From Fife, great king; Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold.

Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursèd at Saint Colme's inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use.

Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursèd at Saint Colme's inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use.

The Weïrd 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.

My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal.

Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting.

Into the air, and what seemed corporal melted As breath into the wind. Would they had stayed!

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.

In viewing o'er the rest o' th' selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death.

The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.—

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 smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

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

Think upon what hath chanced, and, at more time, The interim having weighed it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other.

My liege, They are not yet come back.

O worthiest cousin, The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee.

I'll be myself the harbinger and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach, So humbly take my leave.

Let's after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome. It is a peerless kinsman.

Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the King, who all-hailed me '“Thane of Cawdor,” by which title, before, these Weïrd Sisters saluted me and referred me to the coming on of time with “Hail, king that shalt be.”

Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crowned withal.

Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crowned withal.

Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crowned withal.

What is your tidings?

Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief.

Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry "Hold, hold!"

Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry "Hold, hold!"

He that's coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night's great business into my dispatch, Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

He that's coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night's great business into my dispatch, Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, The air is delicate.

This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, The air is delicate.

We coursed him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor; but he rides well, And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath helped him To his home before us.

Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves and what is theirs in compt, To make their audit at your Highness' pleasure, Still to return your own.

If th’ assassination Could trammel up the consequence and catch With his surcease success, that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We’d jump the life to come.

If th’ assassination Could trammel up the consequence and catch With his surcease success, that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We’d jump the life to come.

And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, horsed Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.

Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,” Like the poor cat i' the adage?

Bring forth men-children only, For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males.

Bring forth men-children only, For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males.