1 Wit.
Why, how now, Hecat', you look angerly.

Hec.
Have I not reason, Beldams, as you are?
Sawcy, and over-bold! how did you dare
To trade and traffick with Macbeth,
In riddles and affairs of death?
And I the mistress of your Charms,
The close contriver of all harms,
Was never call'd to bear my part,
Or shew the glory of our Art?
And which is worse, all you have done
Hath been but for a weyward son;
Spightful and wrathful, who, as others do,
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now; get you gone,
And at the pit of Acheron
Meet me i'th' morning: thither he
Will come, to know his destiny;
Your vessels and your spells provide,
Your Charms, and every thing beside.
I am for th' Air: this night I'll spend
Unto a dismal, fatal end.

Great business must be wrought ere noon:
Upon the corner of the Moon
There hangs a vap'rous drop, profound;
I'll catch it ere it come to ground;
And That, distill'd by magick slights,
Shall raise such artificial sprights,
As, by the strength of their illusion,
Shall draw him on to his confusion.
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear:
And you all know, Security
Is mortals chiefest enemy. [Musick and a Song.
Hark, I am call'd; my little spirit, see,
Sits in the foggy cloud, and stays for me. [Sing within. Come away, come away, &c.

1 Wit.
Come, let's make haste, she'll soon be back again. [Ex.

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