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? |
Macbeth 2
December 14, 2019