A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap And munched and munched and munched. “Give me,” quoth I. “Aroint thee, witch,” the rump-fed runnion cries. Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ th’ Tiger; But in a sieve I’ll thither sail And, like a rat without a tail, I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen. Speak, if you can. What are you?
All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor
All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!
I know I am Thane of Glamis, but how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives
Stay, you imperfect speakers. Tell me more. Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence or why