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Len. What a haste looks through his eyes ? So
should he look,
Rosse. God save the king !
Rosse. From Fife, great king,
King. Great happiness!
80 Sweno, the Norway's king, craves composition ; Nor would we deign him burial of his men, 'Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes' inch, Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
King. No more that thane of Cawder shall deceive Qurbosom interest.-Go, pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth.
Rosse. I'll see it done.
Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
1 Witch. Where hast thou been sister?
1 Witch. A sailor's wife had chesnuts in her lap, And mouncht, and mouncht, and mouncht:-Give
me, quoth 1.
2 Witch. I'll give thee a wind.
Witch. And I another.
Yet it shall be tempest-tost.
2 Witch. Shew me, shew me.
1 Witch. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck’d, as homeward he did come.
[Drum within. 3 Witch. A drum, a drum; Macbeth doth come.
All. The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Enter MACBETH and BANQUO.
Mac. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Ban. How far is't call'd to Fores ? What are these,
Mac. Speak, if you can ;--what are you?
2 Witch. All hạil, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of
Cawdor! 3 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter,
140 Ban. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair ?-I' the name of truth,
fantastical, or that indeed
1 Witch. Hail !
3 Witch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none : So, all hail, Macbeth, and Banquo ! 1 Witch. Banquo, and Macbeth, all hail !
159 Mac. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death, I know, I am thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdord 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 prophetick greeting ?-Speak, I charge you.
[Witches vanish. Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, 169 And these are of them :- Whither are they vanish'd ? Mac. Into the air ; and what seem'd corporal,
melted As breath into the wind.—'Would they had staid !
Ban. Were such things here, as we do speak about ?
Mac. Your children shall be kings.
Enter Rosse and ANGUS.
Rosse. The king hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, 180 The news of thy success: and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebel's fight, His wonders and his praises do contend, Which should be thine, or his : Silenc'd with that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afraid of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as tale, Came post with post; and every one did bear Thy praises in his kingdom's great defence,
190 And pour'd them down before him,