What are these
So wither’d and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o’ the
earth, And yet are on ‘t? Live you? Or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand me,
By each at once her chappy finger laying Upon her skinny lips: you should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. Speak, if you can: what are you? All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of
Glamis! All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, thane of
Cawdor! All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter! Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair? I’ the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner
You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope,
That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not.
If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will
not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear
Your favours nor your hate. Hail! Hail! Hail! Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. Not so happy, yet much happier. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!