We weird sisters, hand in hand, swift travelers over the sea and land, dance around and around like so. Three times to yours, and three times to mine, and three times again, to add up to nine. Enough! The charm is ready.
All hail, Macbeth! Hail to you, thane of Glamis!
All hail, Macbeth! Hail to you, thane of Cawdor!
All hail, Macbeth, the future king!
What did they mean? There is already a Thane of Cawdor.
I don't know. But I think it's unfair that I don't get to become king, but my descendants do.