And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d, / That palter with us in a double sense; / That keep the word of promise to our ear, / And break it to our hope!—

Despair thy charm; / And let the angel whom thou still hast serv’d / Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb / Untimely ripp’d.

When the hurlyburly’s done, / When the battle’s lost and won.

No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive / Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death, / And with his former title greet Macbeth.

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

Nothing in his life / Became him like the leaving it; he died / As one that had been studied in his death, / To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d / As ’twere a careless trifle.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men / May read strange matters.

All our service, / In every point twice done, and then done double, / Were poor and single business to contend / Against those honours deep and broad wherewith / Your Majesty loads our house

This guest of summer, / The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, / By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath / Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, / Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird / hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle.

Away, and mock the time with fairest show: / False face must hide what the false heart doth know.