Document:  All > Shakespeare > Tragedies > Macbeth > Act I, scene III

Jump to: the first appearance of worthy_macbeth,_we_stay_upon_your_leisure.

	[Thunder. Enter the three Witches]

First Witch: Where hast thou been, sister?

Second Witch: Killing swine.

Third Witch: Sister, where thou?

First Witch: A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,
	And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd:--
	'Give me,' quoth I:
	'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries.
	Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger:
	But in a sieve I'll 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.


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 chappy 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.


	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]
	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 horrors 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: Give me your favour: my dull brain was wrought
	With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains
	Are register'd where every day I turn
	The leaf to read them. Let us toward the king.
	Think upon what hath chanced, and, at more time,
	The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak
	Our free hearts each to other.

BANQUO: Very gladly.

MACBETH: Till then, enough. Come, friends.



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