The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; 45 And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! 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 50 Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief!
