Look how our partner’s rapt.
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.
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?
The Thane of Cawdor lives. Why do you dress me In borrowed robes?
to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief,
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 smothered in surmise, and nothing is, But what is not.
My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal.
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.
Stay, you imperfect speakers. Tell me more.
Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?
The Thane of Cawdor is alive and well. What are you talking about? That’s not my title.
You have given my friend such a brilliant prediction that he is now taking his time to think it over.
I can’t believe you say I am going to be king!
Macbeth is lost in thought.
Wait, don’t go. I want to hear more.
I am confused. If all this is good news, which it is, why do I feel so scared?
What if I have to do something terrible to become king, like a murder?
It’s good news, so why do you seem so afraid?
Sometimes the devil tempts us to do wicked things by telling us something true.
If you really can tell the future, tell me mine? I am not afraid of you and won’t worry too much what you say.
