The raven himself is hoarseThat croaks the fatal entrance of DuncanUnder my battlements. Come, you spiritsThat tend on mortal thoughts, me here,And fill me from fullOf direst cruelty! make thick my blood;
So well thy words become thee as thy wounds;They smack of honour both. Go get him surgeons.
A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd:--'Give me,' quoth I:'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries.Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger:But in a sieve I'll thither sail,And, like a rat without a tail,