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.

The Prince of Cumberland!—That is a step / On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, / For in my way it lies.

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.

O, never / Shall sun that morrow see!

Thou wouldst be great; / Art not without ambition, but without / The illness should attend it.

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.

Besides, this Duncan / Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been / So clear in his great office, that his virtues / Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against / The deep damnation of his taking-off;