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Harpier cries, “'Tis time, ’tis time.”
Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whined.
Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.
Come, high or low;
Pour in sow’s blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that’s sweaten From the murderer’s gibbet throw Into the flame.
Call them. Let me see them.
Beware the thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough.
Laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth.
Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are.
Tell me, thou unknown power