Thou hast it now—king, Cawdor, Glamis, all/ As the Weïrd Women promised, and I fear/ Thou played’st most foully for ’t.
Ride you this afternoon?
Ay, my good lord.
Leaves
Ride you this afternoon?
Ay, my good lord.
Leaves
Ride you this afternoon?
Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
Ay, my good lord.
Leaves
Whose execution takes your enemy off,Grapples you to the heart and love of us,Who wear our health but sickly in his life,Which, in his death, were perfect.