New honours come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use.
What hath quenched them hath given me fire.
Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shrieked
We have scotched the snake, not killed it: She’ll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep
Macbeth! Macbeth! beware Macduff, Beware the thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough.
If thou speak’st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much. I pull in resolution, and begin To doubt th’equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth