I will drain him dry as hay: / Sleep shall neither night nor day / Hang upon his pent-house lid; / He shall live a man forbid.

Into the air; and what seem’d corporal, / Melted as breath into the wind.

And, which is worse, all you have done / Hath been but for a wayward son, / Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, / Loves for his own ends, not for you.

A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.