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    MACBETH

    A monologue from the play by William Shakespeare


    HECATE: Have I not reason, beldams as you are,
    Saucy and overbold? How did you dare
    To trade and traffic with Macbeth
    In riddles and affairs of death;
    And I, the mistress of your charms,
    The close contriver of all harms,
    Was never called to bear my part
    Or show the glory of our art?
    And, which is worse, all you have done
    Hath been but for a wayward son,
    Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,
    Loves for his own ends, not for you.
    But make amends now: get you gone
    And at the pit of Acheron
    Meet me i' th' morning. Thither he
    Will come to know his destiny.
    Your vessels and your spells provide,
    Your charms and everything beside.
    I am for th' air. This night I'll spend
    Unto a dismal and a fatal end.
    Great business must be wrought ere noon.
    Upon the corner of the moon
    There hangs a vap'rous drop profound;
    I'll catch it ere it come to ground:
    And that, distilled by magic sleights,
    Shall raise such artificial sprites
    As by the strength of their illusion
    Shall draw him on to his confusion.
    He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
    His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear:
    And you all know security
    Is mortals' chiefest enemy.

    [Music, and a song.]

    Hark! I am called. My little spirit, see,
    Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me.

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