Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

and withered murder moves like a ghost.
His Highness is not well.
My ever gentle cousin.
cannot be good.
Ay, and a bold one that dare look on that which might appal the devil.
From Fife, great King,
No, indeed, my Lord.
What soldiers, patch?
than pity for mischance.
Dismiss me, enough.
My children too?
My voice is in my sword.
that were the slaves of drink?
and catch with his surcease success,
'More shall they speak.
What need we fear who knows it
shall come against him.
Out, I say!
Let grief convert to anger.
Those he commands
Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.
"they made themselves air into which they vanished.
'That is a step on which I must fall down, or else o'erleap,
the Thane of Cawdor.
Hail, Macbeth.
at our great bidding?
Then, prophet-like, they hailed him father to a line of kings.
who shall bear the guilt of our great quell?
and fixed his head upon our battlements.
'Twould have angered any heart alive to hear the men deny it.
Be this the whetstone of your sword.
I am settled
you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts,
He has no children!
the seed of Banquo kings!
Seyton, I say!
but, in their stead,
...honour,
cannot once start me.
Dispute it like a man.
I had else been perfect,
To bed.
My worthy Cawdor.
"Here may you see the tyrant,
which puts upon him suspicion of the deed.
Speak, if you can. What are you?