That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown,Besides the thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange. And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray ’s In deepest consequence.Cousins, a word, I pray you.
Look how our partner’s rapt.
Two truths are told,As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme. (to ROSS and ANGUS) I thank you, gentlemen. This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor. If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,