Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! / Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope / The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence / The life o’ th’ building.

Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, / And look on death itself!

If a man were porter of hell gate, he should have old turning the key.

’Tis unnatural, / Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, / A falcon, towering in her pride of place, / Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.

’Gainst nature still: / Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up / Thine own life’s means!—

Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man’s act, / Threatens his bloody stage: by the clock ’tis day, / And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp.

It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, / If it find heaven, must find it out tonight.

Our fears in Banquo / Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature / Reigns that which would be fear’d: ’tis much he dares; / And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, / He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour / To act in safety.

Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, / And champion me to th’ utterance!—

For Banquo’s issue have I fil’d my mind; / For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d; / Put rancours in the vessel of my peace / Only for them; and mine eternal jewel / Given to the common enemy of man, / To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings!