Banquo, with Soldiers, and other attendants.
Mac.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Ban.
How far is't call'd to Foris?—What are these,
-- 382 --
So wither'd, and so wild in their attire,
That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth,
And yet are on't? Live you, or are you aught
9 noteThat man may question? You seem to understand me,
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips.—You should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret,
That you are so.
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 shalt be King hereafter.
Ban.
Good Sir, why do you start, and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair? I' th' name of truth,
1 note
Are ye fantastical, or That indeed
[To the Witches.
Which outwardly ye shew? 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.
-- 383 --
1 Witch.
Hail!
2 Witch.
Hail!
3 Witch.
Hail!
1 Witch.
Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
2 Witch.
Not so happy, yet much happier.
3 Witch.
Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none;
So, all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
1 Witch.
Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
Mac.
Stay, you imperfect Speakers, tell me more;
2 noteBy Sinel's death, I know, I'm Thane of Glamis;
But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosp'rous 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;
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?
Or have we 3 noteeaten of the insane root,
That takes the Reason prisoner?
Macb.
Your children shall be Kings.
Ban.
You shall be King.
Macb.
And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?
Ban.
To th' self same tune, and words; who's here?
-- 384 --
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
