1 There if I grow, The harvest is your own.
2 The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
3 The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself.
4 The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them.
5 The air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses.
6 Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd The air is delicate.
7 Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd where every day I turn The leaf to read them.
8 The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
9 Thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it.
10 The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements.
11 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.
12 The rest is labour, which is not us'd for you: I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave.
13 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.'
14 The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die.
15 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.
16 Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor, The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point, rebellious arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us.'
17 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; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.
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