If charnel houses and our graves must send / Those that we bury back, our monuments / Shall be the maws of kites.

I drink to the general joy o’ th’ whole table, / And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: / Would he were here.

Safe in a ditch he bides, / With twenty trenched gashes on his head; / The least a death to nature.

'Tis better thee without than he within.

And, which is worse, all you have done / Hath been but for a wayward son, / Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, / Loves for his own ends, not for you.

for from broad words, and ’cause he fail’d / His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear, / Macduff lives in disgrace.

Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous / It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain / To kill their gracious father? damned fact! / How it did grieve Macbeth!

Some holy angel / Fly to the court of England, and unfold / His message ere he come, that a swift blessing / May soon return to this our suffering country / Under a hand accurs’d!

Horrible sight!—Now I see ’tis true; / For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon me, / And points at them for his.—

That will never be: / Who can impress the forest; bid the tree / Unfix his earth-bound root?