1 Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more.
2 This is more strange Than such a murder is.
3 He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him.
4 No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest.
5 Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.
6 I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
7 I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not.
8 Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth.
9 Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear.
10 One of my fellows had the speed of him, Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message.
11 They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfect'st report they have more in them than mortal knowledge.
12 For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
13 Tis his main hope; For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt, And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too.
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 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.
16 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.