1 Witch.
Where hast thou been, Sister?

2 Witch.
Killing Swine.

3 Witch.
Sister, where thou?

1 Witch.
A Sailor's Wife had Chestnuts in her Lap,
And mouncht, and mouncht, and mouncht;
Give me, quoth I.
Aroint thee, Witch, the Rump-fed Ronyon cries.
Her Husband's to Aleppo gone, Master o'th' 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.

2 Witch.
I'll give thee a Wind,

1 Witch.
Th'art kind.

3 Witch.
And I another.

1 Witch.
I my self have all the other,
And the very Ports they blow,
All the Quarters that they know,
I'th' Shipman's Card.
I'll drain him dry as Hay;
Sleep shall neither Night nor Day,
Hang upon his Pent-house Lid;
He shall live a Man forbid;
Weary Sev'nights, 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.

2 Witch.
Shew me, shew me.

1 Witch.
Here, I have a Pilot's Thumb,
Wrackt as homeward he did come. [Drum within.

3 Witch.
A Drum, a Drum.
Macbeth doth come.

All.
The weyward 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. Enter Macbeth and Banquo, with Soldiers and other Attendants.

Macb.
So foul and fair a Day I have not seen.

Ban.
How far is't call'd to Soris?—What are these?
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 ought
That 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,
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 wrapt 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.

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!

Macb.
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 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?

Macb.
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 eaten 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? Enter Rosse and Angus.

Rosse.
The King hath happily receiv'd, 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; Silenc'd with that,
In viewing o'er the rest o'th' self-same day,
He finds thee in the stout Norweyan Ranks,
Nothing afraid, of what thy self 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.

Ang.
We are sent,
To give thee, from our Royal Master, thanks,
Only to Herald thee into his sight,
Not pay thee.

Rosse.
And for an earnest of a greater Honour,
He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:
In which Addition, hail, most worthy Thane!
For it is thine.

Ban.
What, can the Devil speak true?

Macb.
The Thane of Cawdor lives;
Why do you dress me in his borrowed Robes?

Ang.
Who was the Thane, lives yet,
But under heavy Judgment bears that Life,
Which he deserves to lose.
Whether he was combin'd with those of Norway,
Or else did line the Rebel with hidden help,
And vantage; or that with both he labour'd
In his Country's wrack, I know not:

But Treasons Capital, confess'd, and prov'd,
Have overthrown him.

Macb.
Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor! [Aside.
The greatest is behind. Thanks for your pains. [To Angus.
Do you not hope your Children shall be Kings? [To Banquo.
When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me,
Promis'd no less to them?

Ban.
That trusted home,
Might yet enkindle you into 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. [To Rosse and Angus.

Macb.
Two Truths are told, [Aside.
As happy Prologues to the swelling Act
Of the imperial Theam. I thank you, Gentlemen—
This supernatural solliciting
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 murther 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.

Ban.
Look how our Partner's rapt.

Macb.

If Chance will have me King, why chance may crown me

Ban.
New Honours come upon him,
Like our strange Garments, cleave not to their mould,
But with the aid of use.

Macb.
Come what come may,
Time and the Hour runs thro' the roughest Day.

Ban.
Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.

Macb.
Give me your Favour:
My dull Brain was wrought with things forgotten.
Kind Gentlemen, your Pains are registred,
Where every Day I turn the Leaf to read them.
Let us toward the King; think upon [To Banquo.
What hath chanc'd, and at more time,
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.

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