1 There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited.
2 Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
3 Be comforted: Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief.
4 From Fife, great King, Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold.
5 Thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it.
6 If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming.
7 Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.
8 A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching.
9 Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence Against the undivulg'd pretence I fight Of treasonous malice.
10 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.
11 I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay.
12 We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin'd.
13 Thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do," if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Than wishest should be undone.
14 There are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend.
15 He that's coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night's great business into my dispatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.
16 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.