That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto 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.
Thou has it no king, Cawdor, Glamis, all. As the weird women promised, and I fear
Thou played’st most foully for ‘t. Yet it was said
It should not stand in thy posterity, But that myself should be the root and father
Of many kings. If there come truth from them – As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine – Why, by the verities on thee made good,
May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush, no more.
O treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!
Thou may’st revenge – O slave!
What, can the devil speak true?
Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear things that do sound so fair?
Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?
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.
This guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet, does approve, by his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath smells wooingly here
A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, and yet I would not sleep
Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, as the weird women promised, and, I fear, thou play’dst most foully for’t
How far is’t call’d to Forres? What are these? So wither’d and so wild in their attire,…
Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear? Things that do sound so fair? I’ the name of truth,…
New horrors come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould…
Hold, take my sword. There’s husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out. Take thee that too.…
What, sir, not yet at rest? The king’s a-bed: He hath been in unusual pleasure, and…
