Was the hope drunk / Wherein you dress’d yourself? Hath it slept since? / And wakes it now, to look so green and pale / At what it did so freely?

I dreamt last night of the three Weird Sisters: / To you they have show’d some truth.

The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood / Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d.

The obscure bird / Clamour’d the live-long night. Some say the earth / Was feverous, and did shake.

So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, / That every minute of his being thrusts / Against my near’st of life;

There is none but he / Whose being I do fear: and under him / My genius is rebuk’d; as, it is said, / Mark Antony’s was by Caesar.

If there come truth from them / (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine) / Why, by the verities on thee made good, / May they not be my oracles as well, / And set me up in hope?

We have lost best half of our affair.

Strange things I have in head, that will to hand, / Which must be acted ere they may be scann’d.

Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; / Augurs, and understood relations, have / By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth / The secret’st man of blood.—