Macbeth

When shall we three meet againIn thunder, lightning, or in rain?

When the hurlyburly's done,When the battle's lost and won.

That will be ere the set of sun.

Where the place?

Upon the heath.

There to meet with Macbeth.

I come, Graymalkin!

Paddock calls.

Anon.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair:Hover through the fog and filthy air.

What bloody man is that? He can report,As seemeth by his plight, of the revoltThe newest state.

This is the sergeantWho like a good and hardy soldier fought'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend!Say to the king the knowledge of the broilAs thou didst leave it.

Doubtful it stood;As two spent swimmers, that do cling togetherAnd choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald — Worthy to be a rebel, for to thatThe multiplying villanies of natureDo swarm upon him — from the western islesOf kerns and gallowglasses is supplied;And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling,Show'd like a rebel's whore: but all's too weak:For brave Macbeth — well he deserves that name — Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel,Which smoked with bloody execution,Like valour's minion carved out his passageTill he faced the slave;Which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,And fix'd his head upon our battlements.

O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!

As whence the sun 'gins his reflectionShipwrecking storms and direful thunders break,So from that spring whence comfort seem'd to comeDiscomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark:No sooner justice had with valour arm'dCompell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels,But the Norweyan lord surveying vantage,With furbish'd arms and new supplies of menBegan a fresh assault.

Dismay'd not thisOur captains, Macbeth and Banquo?

Yes;As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.If I say sooth, I must report they wereAs cannons overcharged with double cracks, so theyDoubly redoubled strokes upon the foe:Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,Or memorise another Golgotha,I cannot tell.But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds;They smack of honour both. Go get him surgeons.

Who comes here?

The worthy thane of Ross.

What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he lookThat seems to speak things strange.