“So clear in his great office, that his virtues // will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against // the deep damnation of his taking off.”
“Here lay Duncan, // his silver skin laced with his golden blood”
“I have no spur // to prick the sides of my intent, but only // vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself”
“Thou hast it now: King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, // as the weird women promised; and I fear // thou play’dst most foully for’t”
“It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash // is added to her wounds”
“Fit to govern? // No, not to live”
“Turn, hell-hound, turn!”
“Hail, king! For so thou art. Behold where stands // th’ usurper’s cursed head”