We are sent To give thee from our royal master thanks, Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee.
He bade me, from him, call thee thane of Cawdor: In which additional, hail, most worthy thane, for it is thine.
Can the devils speak true?
Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme. 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, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, shakes so my single state of man that functions is smothered in surmise, and nothing is but what is not.
Look how our partner's rapt.
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me without my stir. Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day.