Stay, you imperfect speakers. Tell me more.

Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence

and why, upon this blasted heath,

you stop our way with such prophetic greeting.

Speak, I charge you.

The earth hath bubbles as the water has, and these are of them.

Whither are they vanished?

Into the air,

and what seemed corporal melted as breath into the wind.

Would they had stayed.

Were such things here as we do speak about?

Or have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?

Your children shall be kings.

You shall be king.

And Thane of Cawdor too. Went it not so?

To the selfsame tune and words.

The King hath happily received, Macbeth,

the news of thy success.

As thick as hail came post from post

and every one did bear thy praises, in his kingdom's great defence,