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?

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