Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, / As the Weird Women promis’d; and, I fear, / Thou play’dst most foully for’t;

Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; / Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, / As broad and general as the casing air: / But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in / To saucy doubts and fears.

As, by the strength of their illusion, / Shall draw him on to his confusion.

Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, / Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.

Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof, / Confronted him with self-comparisons, / Point against point, rebellious arm ’gainst arm, / Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, / The victory fell on us.

Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear / Things that do sound so fair?—