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I hear it by the way, but I will send.There’s not a one of them but in his houseI keep a servant feed. I will tomorrow,And betimes I will, to the weird sisters.More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know,By the worst means, the worst. For mine own goodAll causes shall give way. I am in bloodStepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o’er.Strange things I have in head that will to hand,Which must be acted ere they may be scann’d.
Come, we’ll to sleep. My strange and self-abuseIs the initiate fear that wants hard use.We are yet but young in deed.
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
Harpier cries, “’Tis time, ‘tis time.”
Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
He will not be commanded. Here’s another,More potent than the first.
Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks;Thou hast harp’d my fear aright. But one word more—
Then yield thee, coward,And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time.We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, “Here may you see the tyrant.”
Macbeth. I will not yield,To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet,And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,And thou opposed, being of no woman born,Yet I will try the last. Before my bodyI throw my warlike shield! Lay on, Macduff,And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”

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