Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, / Uproar the universal peace, confound / All unity on earth.

the king-becoming graces, / As justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness, / Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, / Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, / I have no relish of them;

Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air, / Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems / A modern ecstasy.

Boundless intemperance / In nature is a tyranny;

Your castle is surpris’d; your wife and babes / Savagely slaughter’d.

black Macbeth / Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state / Esteem him as a lamb, being compar’d / With my confineless harms.

If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine, / My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still.

Of all men else I have avoided thee: / But get thee back; my soul is too much charg’d / With blood of thine already.