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All. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;

Come like shadows, so depart.

Macb. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down!

Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs: and thy hair,

Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first:

A third is like the former. Filthy hags!

Why do you show me this? A fourth! Start, eyes!

What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?

Another yet? A seventh! I'll see no more:

And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass

Which shows me many more; and some I see

That two-fold balls and treble sceptres carry.

Horrible sight! Now, I see, 'tis true;

For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me,

And points at them for his.

What! is this so?

First Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so: but why

Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?

Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,

And show the best of our delights.

I'll charm the air to give a sound,

While you perform your antic round,

That this great king may kindly say,

Our duties did his welcome pay.

Music. The Witches dance, and vanish [with Hecate].

Macb. Where are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour

 117 crack of doom: break of Judgment Day

121 Cf. n.

123 blood-bolter'd: blood-clotted

130 antic: fantastic

