Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

Hear'st thou of them?
win us with honest trifles
Do you not hope your children shall be kings
like valour's minion
To bed.
Alas, the day. What good could they pretend?
Soldiers, sir.
Thanks for that.
my senses would have cooled to hear a night-shriek
Look not so pale.
Be it their comfort we are coming thither.
who may I rather challenge for unkindness
and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty.
"No man that's born of woman shall e'er have power upon thee."
and damned all those that trust them!
Duncan comes here tonight.
when those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me
Beware the Thane of Fife.
'for in my way it lies.'
Hail, Macbeth.
for none of woman born shall harm Macbeth.
The cry is still, "They come!"
You must leave this.
And that which should accompany old age as...
I have supped full with horrors.
"'Hail, king that shalt be."'
to the last syllable of recorded time.
where hearing should not latch them.
What is't that moves Your Highness?
Put on your nightgown.
Wash your hands.
You shall be king.
Our royal master, he's murdered.
Come, seeling night.
They say blood will have blood.
If I stand here, I saw him.
You make me strange,
Your royal preparation makes us hear something.
I'll make so bold to call.
When Duncan is asleep
when first they put the name of king upon me
to leave no rubs nor botches in the work,
and make joyful the hearing of my wife with your approach,
and mingle with the English epicures.
This tyrant,
and such an instrument I was to use.
I have no words.
I'll be myself the harbinger
There's knocking at the gate.
This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.
If the assassination could trammel up the consequence
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going
You know your own degrees.
Art thou afeard to be the same in thine own act and valour
yet I will try the last.
I have done no harm!
Turn.
No, please, my babies!
A little water clears us of this deed.
Was this not nobly done?
must embrace the fate of that dark hour.
If ill, why hath it given me earnest of success,
Those that Macbeth hath slain.
seek to hide themselves in drops of sorrow.
No boasting like a fool.
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold.