Macbeth Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman. And to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence, or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish] Banquo The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanished? Macbeth Into the air; and what seemed corporal melted As breath into the wind. Would they had stayed. Banquo Were such things here as we do speak about, Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? Read more about Act 1, Scene 3: Popup Note Index Item: "insane root"
