1 Witch. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreckt as homeward he did come. 3 Witch. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come! [Drum within All. The weyward fifters, hand in hand, Pofters 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. SCENE IV. Enter Macbeth and Banquo, with Soldiers and other Mac. S attendants. O foul and fair a day I have not seen. So wither'd, and fo wild in their attire, -What That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, Macb. Speak, if you can; what are you? 1 Witch. All-hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis ! 2 Witch. All-hail, Macbeth: hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! 3 Witch. All-hail, Macbeth! that fhalt be King hereafter. Ban. Good Sir, why do you start, and seem to fear Things that do found so fair? I' th' name of truth, Are ye fantaftical, or That indeed [To the Witches. Which outwardly ye fhew? my noble Partner You greet with prefent grace, and great prediction Of Of noble Having, and of royal Hope, That he feems rapt withal; to me you speak not. And say, which Grain will grow and which will not; 1 Witch. Hail! 2 Witch. Hail! 3 Witch. Hail! I Witch. Leffer than Macbeth, and greater. 2 Witch. Not fo happy, yet much happier. 3 Witch. Thou fhalt get Kings, though thou be none; So, all hail, Macbeth and Banquo? 1 Witch. Banquo and Macbeth, all-hail! Macb. Stay, you imperfect Speakers, tell me more; * By Sinel's death, I know, I'm Thane of Glamis; But how, of Cawdor ?- the Thane of Cawdor lives. A profp'rous gentleman; and, to be King, Stands not within the profpect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence You owe this ftrange intelligence? or why Upon this blafted heath you ftop our way, With fuch prophetic Greeting?-fpeak, I charge [Witches vanish. you. Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has ; And these are of them: whither are they vanish'd? Mach. Into the air: and what feem'd corporal Melted, as breath, into the wind. 'Would they had staid! Ban. Were fuch things here, as we do speak about? Or have we eaten of the infane root, That takes the Reason prisoner? Macb. Your children shall be Kings. Ban. You fhall be King. Macb. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not fo? Ban. To th' felf fame tune, and words; who's here? By Sinel's Death.] The Father of Macbeth. Mr. Pope. SCENE Roffe. TH 'HE King hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, reads Thy perfonal 'venture in the rebels' fight, Ang. We are fent, To give thee, from our royal Master, thanks; Not pay thee. Roffe. And for an earnest of a greater honour, Ban. What, can the Devil speak true? Why do you dress me in his borrow'd robes ? But under heavy judgment bears that life, Macb. Glamis and Thane of Cawdor! [Afide. The The greatest is behind. Thanks for your pains. [To Angus. Do you not hope, your children fhall be Kings? [To Banquo. When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me, Promis'd no lefs to them? Ban. That, trufted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the Crown, But 'tis ftrange: In deepeft confequence. Coufins, a word, I pray you. Mach. Two truths are told, [To Roffe and Angus. As happy prologues to the fwelling act [Afide. Of the imperial theme. I thank you, gentlemen- Cannot be ill; cannot be good.-If ill, My thought, whofe murder yet is but fantastical But what is not. Ban. Look, how our Partner's rapt! Macb. If Chance will have me King, why, Chance may crown me, Without my ftir. Ban. New Honours, come upon him, [Afide. Like our ftrange garments cleave not to their mould, But with the aid of use. Time and the hour runs thro' the roughest day. With things forgot. Kind gentlemen, your pains The leaf to read them-Let us tow'rd the King; Think, upon what hath chanc'd; and at more time, [To Banquo. (The Interim having weigh'd it,) let us speak Our free hearts each to other. Ban. Very gladly. Macb. 'Till then, enough: come, friends. [Exeunt. Flourish. Enter King, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lenox, and attendants. King Or not those in commiffion S execution done on Cawdor yet? Mal. My liege, yet return'd? They are not yet come back. But I have spoke King. There's no art, To find the mind's conftruction in the face: Enter |