Might yet enkindle you unto the Crowne,
Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:

And oftentimes, to winne us to our harme,

The Instruments of Darknesse tell us Truths,

Winne us with honest Trifles, to betray's

In deepest consequence.

Cousins, a word, I pray you.

Macb.

Two Truths are told,

As happy Prologues to the swelling Act

Of the Imperiall Theame. I thanke you Gentlemen :

The supernaturall solliciting

Cannot be ill; cannot be good.

If ill? why hath it given me earnest of successe,
Commencing in a Truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
If good? why doe I yeeld to that suggestion,
Whose horrid Image doth unfixe my Heire,
And make my seated Heart knock at my Ribbes,
Against the use of Nature? Present Feares

Are lesse then horrible Imaginings :

My Thought, whose Murther yet is but fantasticall,

Shakes so my single state of Man,

That Function is smother'd in surmise,

And nothing is, but what is not.

Like our strange Garments, cleave not to their mould,

But with the aid of use.

Macb.

Come what come may,

Time, and the Houre, runs through the roughest Day.

Bang. Worthy Macbeth, wee stay upon your leysure.

Mach. Give me your favour :

My dull Braine was wrought with things forgotten.

Kinde Gentlemen, your paines are registred,

Where every day I turne the Leafe,

To reade them.

Let us toward the King: thinke upon
What hath chanc'd: and at more time,
The Interim having weigh'd it, let us speake

Our free Hearts each to other.

Banq. Very gladly.

Mach. Till then enough:

Come friends.

Scena Quarta.

Exeunt.

Flourish. Enter King, Lenox, Malcolme, Donalbane, and

Attendants.

King. Is execution done on Cawdor?

Or not those in Commission yet return'd?

Mal. My Liege, they are not yet come back.

But I have spoke with one that saw him die :
Who did report, that very frankly hee

Confess'd his Treasons, implor'd your Highnesse Pardon,
And set forth a deepe Repentance :

Nothing in his Life became him,

Like the leaving it. Hee dy'de,

As one that had beene studied in his death,

To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,

As 'twere a carelesse Trifle.

To finde the Mindes construction in the Face:

He was a Gentleman, on whom I built

An absolute Trust.

Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Rosse, aud Angus.

O worthyest Cousin,

The sinne of my Ingratitude even now
Was heavie on me. Thou art so farre before,
That swiftest Wing of Recompence is slow,
To overtake thee. Would thou hadst lesse deserv'd,
That the proportion both of thanks, and payment,
Might have beene mine: onely I have left to say,
More is thy due, then more then all can pay.

Mach. The service, and the loyaltie I owe,
In doing it, payes it selfe.

Your Highnesse part, is to receive our Duties :
And our Duties are to your Throne, and State,
Children, and Servants; which doe but what they should,
By doing everything safe toward your Love
And Honor.

I have begun to plant thee, and will labour

To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
That hast no lesse deserv'd, nor must be knowne
No lesse to have done so: Let me enfold thee,

And hold thee to my Heart.

The Harvest is your owne.
King.
My plenteous Joyes,
Wanton in fulnesse, seeke to hide themselves
In drops of sorrow. Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,
And you whose places are the nearest, know,
We will establish our Estate upon

Our eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,
The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor must

Not unaccompanied, invest him onely,

But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shine
On all deservers. From hence to Envernes,

And binde us further to you.

Mach. The Rest is Labor, which is not us'd for you: Ile be my selfe the Herbenger, and make joyfull

The hearing of my Wife, with your approach :
So humbly take my leave.

Mach. The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step,
On which I must fall downe, or else o're-leape,
For in my way it lyes. Starres hide your fires,
Let not Light see my black and deepe desires :
The Eye winke at the Hand; yet let that bee,
Which the Eye feares, when it is done to see.

King. True, worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,
And in his commendations, I am fed :

Whose care is gone before, to bid us welcome :
It is a peerelesse Kinsman.

Scena Quinta.

Exit.

Flourish. Exeunt.

Enter Macbeths Wife alone with a Letter.

Lady. They met me in the day of successe: and I have learn'd by the perfect'st report, they have more in them, then mortall knowledge. When I burnt in desire to question them further, they made themselves Ayre, into which they vanish'd. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missives from the King, who all-hail'd me Thane of Cawdor, by which Title before, these weyward Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me to the comming on of time, with haile King that shalt be. This have I thought good to deliver thee (my dearest Partner of Greatnesse) that thou might' st not loose the dues of rejoycing by being ignorant of what Greatnesse is promis'd thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.

Glamys thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be

What thou art promis'd: yet doe I feare thy Nature,
It is too full o'th'Milke of humane kindnesse,
To catch the neerest way. Thou would'st be great,
Art not without Ambition, but without

The illnesse should attend it. What thou would'st highly,
That would'st thou holily: would'st not play false,

And yet would'st wrongly winne.
Should'st have, great Glamys, that which cryes,
Thus thou must doe, if thou have it;
And that which rather thou do'st feare to doe,
Then wishest should be undone. High thee hither,
That I may powre my Spirits in thine Eare,
And chastise with the valour of my Tongue
All that impeides thee from the Golden Round,
Which Fate and Metaphysicall ayde doth seeme
To have thee crown'd withall.

What is your tidings?

Enter Messenger.

Mess. The King comes here to Night.
Lady.

Thou'rt mad to say it.

Is not thy Master with him? who, wer't so,

Would have inform'd for preparation.

Mess. So please you, it is true: our Thane is comming:

One of my fellowes had the speed of him;

Who almost dead for breath, had scarcely more

Then would make up his Message.

Lady.

He brings great newes.

The Raven himselfe is hoarse,

Give him tending,

Exit Messenger.

That croakes the fatall entrance of Duncan

Under my Battlements. Come you Spirits,

That tend on mortall thoughts, unsex me here,

And fill me from the Crowne to the Toe, top-full

Of direst Crueltie: make thick my blood,
Stop up th'accesse, and passage to Remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of Nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keepe peace betweene
Th'effect, and hit. Come to my Womans Brests,
And take my Milke for Gall, you murth'ring Ministers,