Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 3

Where hast thou been, sister?

Where have you been, sister?

Killing swine.

Killing pigs.

Sister, where thou?

Sister, where were you?

A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch’d, and mounch’d, and mounch’d. “Give me,” quoth I. “Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ th’ Tiger: But in a sieve I’ll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.

A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, and she chewed and chewed and chewed. "Give me some," I said. "Get away from me, witch!" the fat-bottomed scab cries. Her husband has gone to Aleppo, master of the ship called the Tiger: but I'll sail there in a sieve, and, like a rat without a tail, I'll do it, I'll do it, and I'll do it.

I’ll give thee a wind.

I'll give you a wind.

Th’art kind.

You're kind.

And I another.

And I'll give you another.

I myself have all the other, And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I’ the shipman’s card. 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. Weary sev’n-nights nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have.

I have all the rest myself, and the very harbours they blow toward, all the points of the compass they are marked by on a sailor's chart. I will drain him dry as hay: sleep shall hang on his overhanging eyelid neither night nor day; he shall live as a man under a curse. For nine times nine exhausting weeks he shall waste away, grow thin, and dwindle: though his ship cannot be lost, it shall still be tossed by storms. Look what I have.

Show me, show me.

Show me, show me.

Here I have a pilot’s thumb, Wrack’d as homeward he did come.

Here I have a ship's pilot's thumb, who was wrecked as he was coming home.

A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.

A drum, a drum! Macbeth is coming.

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.

The Weird Sisters, hand in hand, swift travellers over sea and land, go round and round like this: three times to yours, and three times to mine, and three times again, to make nine. Quiet!—the spell is ready.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

I have never seen a day at once so foul and so fair.

How far is’t call’d to Forres?—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? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.

How far do they say it is to Forres?—What are these creatures, so withered and so wild in their clothing, that do not look like inhabitants of the earth, and yet stand on it?—Are you alive? Are you anything a man can put a question to? You seem to understand me, since each of you at the same moment lays a chapped finger on her thin lips. You ought to be women, and yet your beards stop me from concluding that you are.

Speak, if you can;—what are you?

Speak, if you can—what are you?

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!

All hail, Macbeth! Hail to you, Thane of Glamis!

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!

All hail, Macbeth! Hail to you, Thane of Cawdor!

All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter!

All hail, Macbeth, who shall be king in time to come!

Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?—I’ th’ name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate.

Good sir, why do you flinch and seem to be afraid of things that sound so good?—In the name of truth, are you creatures of the imagination, or really what you appear to be on the outside? You greet my noble companion with his present rank and with a great prediction of noble fortune and of royal hope, so that he seems entranced by it. To me you say nothing. If you can look into the seeds of time and say which grain will grow and which will not, then speak to me, who neither beg for nor fear your favours or your hatred.

Hail!

Hail!

Hail!

Hail!

Hail!

Hail!

Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.

Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.

Not so happy, yet much happier.

Not as fortunate, yet much more fortunate.

Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!

You shall father kings, though you will be none yourself: so all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!

Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?—Speak, I charge you.

Wait, you who tell only half the story, tell me more. By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; but how am I Thane of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor is alive, a thriving gentleman; and to be king is no more believable than to be Cawdor. Say where you get this strange knowledge, or why on this blighted heath you block our way with such prophetic greetings—speak, I order you.

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d?

The earth has bubbles, as the water does, and these are some of them. Where have they disappeared to?

Into the air; and what seem’d corporal, Melted as breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d!

Into the air; and what seemed to have bodies melted like breath into the wind. I wish they had stayed!

Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?

Were the things we are talking about really here? Or have we eaten the root that drives people mad and takes the reason prisoner?

Your children shall be kings.

Your children shall be kings.

You shall be king.

You shall be king.

And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?

And Thane of Cawdor too; wasn't that how it went?

To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s here?

Exactly that tune and those words. Who's here?

The King hath happily receiv’d, Macbeth, The news of thy success, and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc’d with that, In viewing o’er the rest o’ th’ selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as tale Came post with post; and everyone did bear Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, And pour’d them down before him.

The King has received the news of your success with joy, Macbeth, and when he considers the risk you took in person in the fight with the rebels, his amazement and his praise compete over which should be yours and which his own. Struck silent by that, and going on to review the rest of that same day, he finds you in the tough Norwegian ranks, not at all frightened by the strange pictures of death that you yourself were making. Messenger came after messenger as fast as the story could be told; and every one of them carried praise of you for your great defence of his kingdom, and poured it out before him.

We are sent To give thee from our royal master thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee.

We are sent to give you thanks from our royal master; only to escort you into his presence, not to pay you what you are owed.

And, for an earnest of a greater honour, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine.

And, as a down payment on a greater honour, he told me to call you, in his name, Thane of Cawdor: so, with that title added, hail, most worthy thane, for it is yours.

What, can the devil speak true?

What, can the devil tell the truth?

The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow’d robes?

The Thane of Cawdor is alive: why do you dress me in clothes that are borrowed?

Who was the Thane lives yet, But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin’d With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not; But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d, Have overthrown him.

The man who was Thane is still alive, but he carries under a severe sentence the life he deserves to lose. Whether he was allied with the men of Norway, or secretly backed the rebel with help and support, or worked with both to ruin his country, I don't know; but capital treasons, confessed and proved, have brought him down.

[Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus.] Thanks for your pains. [To Banquo.] Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis’d no less to them?

[Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: the greatest is still to come. [To Ross and Angus.] Thank you for your trouble. [To Banquo.] Don't you hope your children will be kings, when those who gave me the title Thane of Cawdor promised them no less?

That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s In deepest consequence.— Cousins, a word, I pray you.

If that is trusted all the way, it might well fire you up to reach for the crown, as well as the title of Thane of Cawdor. But it's strange: and often, to draw us into our own harm, the agents of darkness tell us truths; they win us over with small honest truths, so as to betray us in matters of the deepest importance.—Cousins, a word with you, please.

[Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.— [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smother’d in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

[Aside.] Two truths have been told, as encouraging openings to the swelling drama whose subject is the throne.—Thank you, gentlemen.—[Aside.] This supernatural urging cannot be evil; cannot be good. If it is evil, why has it given me a down payment of success, beginning with a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor. If it is good, why do I give way to that suggestion whose horrible picture makes my hair stand on end and makes my firmly set heart knock against my ribs, contrary to what is natural? Real dangers in front of me are less frightening than what I imagine. My thought, in which the murder is still only imaginary, so shakes my whole being as one man that my powers of action are stifled by speculation, and nothing exists for me except what does not exist.

Look, how our partner’s rapt.

Look how entranced our companion is.

[Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir.

[Aside.] If chance means me to be king, then chance may crown me without my doing anything about it.

New honours come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use.

New honours have come to him, and, like clothes we are not used to, they do not fit his shape except with the help of wearing them.

[Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

[Aside.] Whatever comes, time and the hour move on through even the roughest day.

Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.

Worthy Macbeth, we are waiting until you are ready.

Give me your favour. My dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register’d where every day I turn The leaf to read them.—Let us toward the King.— Think upon what hath chanc’d; and at more time, The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other.

Forgive me. My slow brain was busy with things I had forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your efforts are written down where every day I turn the page to read them.—Let us go to the King.—Think about what has happened; and later on, when time has let us weigh it, let us speak our minds freely to each other.

Very gladly.

Very gladly.

Till then, enough.—Come, friends.

Till then, that's enough.—Come, friends.