Macbeth Act 3 Scene 5
A heath. Thunder.
The Original
Plain Modern English
Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.
First Witch
Why, how now, Hecate! you look angerly.
First Witch
Uh oh — what's wrong, Hecate? You look furious.
Hecate
Have I not reason, beldams as you are,
Saucy and overbold? How did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth
In riddles and affairs of death;
And I, the mistress of your charms,
The close contriver of all harms,
Was never call'd to bear my part,
Or show the glory of our art?
And, which is worse, all you have done
Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now: get you gone,
And at the pit of Acheron
Meet me i' the morning: thither he
Will come to know his destiny:
Your vessels and your spells provide,
Your charms and every thing beside.
I am for the air; this night I'll spend
Unto a dismal and a fatal end:
Great business must be wrought ere noon:
Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
I'll catch it ere it come to ground:
And that distill'd by magic sleights
Shall raise such artificial sprites
As by the strength of their illusion
Shall draw him on to his confusion:
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
He hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear:
And you all know, security
Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
Hecate
Don't I have reason to be, you crones —
insolent, overreaching crones? How dare you
wheel and deal with Macbeth
in riddles and the business of death,
while I — the mistress of your magic,
the secret designer of every harm —
was never once invited to play my part
or show what our art can really do?
And worse: everything you did,
you did for an ungrateful brat —
spiteful, wrathful, and like all his kind,
in it for himself, never for you.
Now make it right. Off with you:
meet me at the pit of Acheron
in the morning. That's where he'll come
to demand his destiny.
Bring your cauldrons, ready your spells,
your charms, and all the rest.
I'm off to ride the air. I'll spend tonight
arranging a grim and fatal ending.
Big work must be finished before noon.
On the tip of the moon's crescent
hangs a potent drop of mist;
I'll catch it before it touches the ground,
and distilled with magic tricks
it will conjure phantoms so convincing
that the sheer power of their illusion
will lead him straight to his ruin.
He'll spit at fate, sneer at death, and carry his hopes
higher than wisdom, grace, or fear can reach.
And you all know: feeling safe
is a mortal's deadliest enemy.
Music and a song within: 'Come away, come away.'
Hecate
Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,
Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me.
Hecate
Listen — that's my ride. See? My little spirit
is parked in a foggy cloud, waiting for me.
Exit Hecate.
First Witch
Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again.
First Witch
Come on, hurry — she'll be back before we know it.
Exeunt.