Macbeth 2

King, Cawdor,	Glaims, all, as the weird women promised
Let me	Find him, fortune (Macduff)
The heart	Is sorely charged
Bleed,	Bleed, poor country
Th’usurper’s	Cursed head
Will these hands	ne’er be clean?
Thy royal	Father was a most sainted king
Whom we invite	To see us crowned at Scone
Like a giant’s	Robe upon a dwarfish theif
Come	You spirits
Screw your	courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail
Stay	Speak// witches vanish
Our	Suffering country
Great Birnam	Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
You should be	Women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so
By the pricking	of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes
I think	Not of them
Will all great	Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?
That which hath	Made them drunk hath made me bold
I have drugged	Their possets
Had he not	Resembled my father as he’d slept
Sir,	Not I
Wherefore	Did you so?