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

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

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!

Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; / As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, / Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept / All by the name of dogs

And make our faces vizards to our hearts, / Disguising what they are.

We have scorch’d the snake, not kill’d it. / She’ll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice / Remains in danger of her former tooth.

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.

Better be with the dead, / Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, / Than on the torture of the mind to lie / In restless ecstasy.