I pull in resolution; and begin / To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend, / That lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnam wood / Do come to Dunsinane;” and now a wood / Comes toward Dunsinane.—

Thou wast born of woman. / But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, / Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.

What’s he / That was not born of woman? Such a one / Am I to fear, or none.

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.

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?

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.