1 Come, come, come, come, give me your hand.
2 Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
3 My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white.
4 An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.
5 Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe.
6 From this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand.
7 The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
8 Strange things I have in head, that will to hand, Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd.
9 Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
10 Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him.
11 Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence Against the undivulg'd pretence I fight Of treasonous malice.
12 To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.
13 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.
14 Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows.
15 There are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend.
16 He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail'd him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding.
17 I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before, More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed.
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