1 This castle hath a pleasant seat.
2 Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.
3 What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.
4 The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them.
5 That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.
6 Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame.
7 Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been Th untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings.
8 This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet.
9 My lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well.
10 Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good truth and honour.
11 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.
12 Ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons The shard-born beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note.
13 We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon.
14 This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, Of your mere own.
15 Our fears in Banquo Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety.'
16 This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle.
17 Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.
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