1 It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood.
2 Where we are, There's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody.
3 Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
4 Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
5 Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already.
6 You are, and do not know't: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd.
7 Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame.
8 For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
9 Mine eyes are made the fools o the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, Which was not so before.
10 Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows.
11 Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood.
12 Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore.