(aside) Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme. (to ROSS and ANGUS) I thank you, gentlemen.
(aside) This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor.
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature? Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man
That function is smothered in surmise,
And nothing is but what is not.
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me
Without my stir
Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Translation: (To himself) so far the witches have tols me two things came true, so it looks like I will become King. (To Ross and Angus) Thank you, gentleman. (To himself) This supernatural fascination doesn't seem like a bad thing, yet it doesn't seem like a good one either. If its a bad thing why was I promised this raise which became true? I'm the thane of Cawdor now. If this is a good thing, why do I think about the horrible images which make my hair stand up and make my heart pound harder inside of me? My fears here are less threatning now then the horrible things I'm imagining. Even though its unreal yet, the thought of murdering shakes me up so much that I barely recognize myself anymore. My abilities are wrecked by my thoughs. I only care about things that don't really exist.
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| Witches from Macbeth |
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| Macbeth becoming the Thane of Cawdor |
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