1 Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been Th untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings.
2 Tis call'd the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do.
3 I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay.
4 That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed at Saint Colme's Inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
5 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.
6 Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the Weird Women promis'd; and, I fear, Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings.
7 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.
8 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.
9 With this there grows In my most ill-compos'd affection such A staunchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other's house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.