’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.

Light thickens; and the crow / Makes wing to th’ rooky wood. / Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, / Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.

This is the very painting of your fear: / This is the air-drawn dagger which you said, / Led you to Duncan.

There the grown serpent lies; the worm that’s fled / Hath nature that in time will venom breed, / No teeth for th’ present.—

we may again / Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; / Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, / Do faithful homage, and receive free honours, / All which we pine for now.

Eye of newt, and toe of frog, / Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, / Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, / Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing, / For a charm of powerful trouble, / Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

I ’gin to be aweary of the sun, / And wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.—

Your leafy screens throw down, / And show like those you are.—

Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands / Th’ usurper’s cursed head: the time is free.