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

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

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

Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake / Thy gory locks at me.

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

The gracious Duncan / Was pitied of Macbeth:—marry, he was dead:— / And the right valiant Banquo walk’d too late; / Whom, you may say, if’t please you, Fleance kill’d, / For Fleance fled.

A deed without a name.

But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, / And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour / From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, / But float upon a wild and violent sea / Each way and move—

His flight was madness: when our actions do not, / Our fears do make us traitors.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, / Was once thought honest