A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, and mounch'd, and mounch'd: "Give me." quoth I:-- "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon 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.
I'll give thee a wind.
Th' art kind
And I another
I myself have all the other; and the very ports they blow, all the quarters that they know i' th' shipman's card. I'll drain him dry as hay: sleep shall, neither night nor day, hang upon his pent-house lid; he shall live a man forbid. Weary sev'n-nights, nine times nine, shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: though his bark cannot be lost, yet it shall be tempest-toss'd. Look what I have.
Shew me, shew me.
Here I pilot's thumb, wrack'd as homeward he did come.
A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.
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.