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The Weird sisters, hand in hand, posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine and thrice to mine And thrice again, to make up nine. Peace! the charm's wound up.
How far is ’t called to Forres?—What are these So withered and so wild in their attire,That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' Earth,And yet are on ’t?—Live you? Or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me,By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips. You should be women,And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.
All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!
All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!
And, for an earnest of a greater honor,He bade me, from him, call thee thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine.
So far the witches have told me two things that came true, so it seems like this will culminate in my becoming king. ( ... ) . This supernatural temptation doesn’t seem like it can be a bad thing, but it can’t be good either. If it’s a bad thing, why was I promised a promotion that turned out to be true? Now I’m the thane of Cawdor, just like they said I would be. But if this is a good thing, why do I find myself thinking about murdering King Duncan, a thought so horrifying that it makes my hair stand on end and my heart pound inside my chest? The dangers that actually threaten me here and now frighten me less than the horrible things I’m imagining.
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