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All hail, Macbeth,
that shalt be King hereafter!
The power of man;
for none of woman born shall harm Macbeth.
Thou’ hast it now:
King, Cawdor, Glamis, all As the weird women promised: and, I fear, Thou play’dst most foully for’t.
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
Two truths are told
As happy prologues to the swelling Act of the imperial theme.
Was he not born of woman?
The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus:
She should have died hereafter: There would have been a time for such a word -
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
Will all great Neptune’s ocean
wash this blood clean from my hand?
Out, damned spot!
Out, I say!
I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss them. Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done’t.
Look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under’t.
Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe, top-full of direst cruelty.
Yet do I fear thy nature:
It is too full o’the milk of human-kindness
And wakes it now
to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? Such I account thy love.
Boundless intemperance in nature is a tyranny.
It hath been The untimely emptying of that happy throne, And fall of many Kings.
I am in blood Stepped in so far,
that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er.
Is this a dagger
which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
You know your
own degrees, sit down.
O’er one half
of the world, nature seems dead.
The night
has been unruly.
Hath nature
that in time will venom breed,