If you can look into the seeds of time, / And say which grain will grow, and which will not, / Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear / Your favours nor your hate.

If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me / Without my stir.

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, / And these are of them.

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

There to meet with Macbeth.

Or have we eaten on the insane root / That takes the reason prisoner?

You should be women, / And yet your beards forbid me to interpret / That you are so.

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

The Weird Sisters, hand in hand, / Posters of the sea and land, / Thus do go about, about: / Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, / And thrice again, to make up nine. / Peace!—the charm’s wound up.

What are these, / So wither’d, and so wild in their attire, / That look not like the inhabitants o’ th’ earth, / And yet are on’t?—Live you? or are you aught / That man may question?