Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night hath trifled formal knowings.
Is't night's predominance of day's shame that darkness does the face of earth entomb when living light should kiss it?
On Tuesday last, a falcon, tow'ring in her pride of place, was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.
And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange and certain), beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, turned wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make war with mankind.
'Tis said they eat each other.
Is't known who did this more than bloody deed?
How goes the world, sir, now?
Those that Macbeth hath slain.
Why, see you not?
Malcolm and Donalbain, the King’s two sons, are stol’n away and fled, which puts upon them suspicion of the deed.
’Gainst nature still!Thriftless ambition, that will ravin upThine own lives’ means.