Macbeth

by William Shakespeare

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires:

Hie thee hither, 25 That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown’d withal.

Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;

make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between

Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t.

To alter favour ever is to fear: Leave all the rest to me.

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love.