Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 3

Where hast thou been, sister?

Where have you been, sister?

Killing swine.

Killing pigs.

Sister, where thou?

Sister, where have you been?

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 munched, and munched, and munched. "Give me some," I said. "Get away from me, witch!" the fat-fed scab shouts. Her husband has gone to Aleppo, captain of 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 of them myself, and the very harbours they blow toward, all the points of the compass they are known by on the sailor's chart. I will drain him dry as hay: sleep shall hang on his drooping eyelid neither night nor day; he shall live as a man under a curse. For nine times nine weary weeks he shall waste away, grow thin, and wither. Though his ship cannot be sunk, it will 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 pilot's thumb, 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 so foul and so fair at once.

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 is it said to be to Forres? What are these creatures, so shrivelled and so wild in their clothing, who do not look like inhabitants of the earth, and yet stand on it? Are you alive? Are you something a man may ask questions of? 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 believing 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 the future!

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 fear 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 a grand prediction of noble possessions and royal hope, so that he seems carried away 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.

Less than Macbeth, and greater.

Not so happy, yet much happier.

Not so 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 being king is no more believable than being Cawdor. Say where you got this strange knowledge, or why you stop us on this blighted heath 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 water does, and these were some of them. Where have they vanished 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 solid flesh 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 such things here as we are talking about? Or have we eaten the root that drives you mad and takes 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 coming?

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 reads of your personal daring in the fight against the rebels, his amazement and his praise compete over which should be yours and which his own. Struck silent by that, and going over the rest of that same day, he finds you among the tough Norwegian ranks, not at all afraid of what you yourself were making: strange pictures of death. Messenger came after messenger as fast as they could be counted, 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 have been 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 ordered me to call you, on his behalf, Thane of Cawdor. So with that new title, 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 borrowed robes?

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 under a heavy sentence he holds on to a life he deserves to lose. Whether he was allied with the Norwegians, or backed the rebel with secret help and support, or worked with both to ruin his country, I do not 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.

That, if you trusted it completely, might well fire you up to want the crown as well as the title Thane of Cawdor. But it is strange: and often, to win us over to our own harm, the agents of darkness tell us truths; they win us with honest little things, in order 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, like happy opening scenes to the swelling drama whose subject is the throne. — Thank you, gentlemen. — [Aside.] This supernatural prompting 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, in a way nature never intended? Real dangers in front of me are less frightening than horrible things imagined. My thought, in which murder is still only imaginary, so shakes my whole being as one man that my power to act is choked by guesswork, and nothing exists for me except what does not exist.

Look, how our partner’s rapt.

Look how lost in thought our companion is.

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

[Aside.] If chance wants me to be king, well then, chance may crown me without my doing anything.

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

New honours have come upon him, and like unfamiliar clothes, they don't fit his shape until he has worn them a while.

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

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

Until then, enough. Come, friends.