Fair is foul,
and foul is fair:
What he hath
lost
noble Macbeth
hath won.
That look not
like the
inhabitants o'
the earth,
And yet are
on't?
Live you?
or are you
aught
That man may
question?
you should be
women,
And yet your
beards
Good sir, why do Things that do
you start; and
sound so fair?
seem to fear
Are ye
fantastical, or
that indeed
Speak then to
Which
outwardly ye
show?
me, who neither Your favours
beg nor fear
nor your hate.
Lesser than
Macbeth,
and greater.
Not so happy,
yet much
happier.
Win us with
honest trifles,
to betray's
In deepest
consequence.
This
supernatural
soliciting
Cannot be ill,
Present fears
Are less
nothing is
cannot be
good:
than horrible
imaginings:
But what is
not.
or else
On which I must
o'erleap,
fall down,
Let not light see my black and
deep desires:
what thou
wouldst highly,
That wouldst
thou holily
Come to my
woman's
breasts,
And take my
milk
for gall,
and I feel now
The future in the
instant.
Thy letters have
transported me beyond
This ignorant present,
But
be
the
look like the
serpent
innocent flower,
under't.
Come to my woman's
breasts,
And take my milk