Act III

Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all,

As the weird women promised, and, I fear,

Thou play’dst most foully for’t: yet it was said

It should not stand in thy posterity,

But that myself should be the root and father

Of many kings. If there come truth from them⁠—

As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine⁠—

Why, by the verities on thee made good,

May they not be my oracles as well,

And set me up in hope? But hush! no more.

Here’s our chief guest.

If he had been forgotten,

It had been as a gap in our great feast,

And all-thing unbecoming.

To-night we hold a solemn supper sir,

And I’ll request your presence.