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Capulet

What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

Lady Capulet

A crutch, a crutch — why call you for a sword?

Capulet

My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.
[Enter the elderly Lord Montague in his nightgown and Lady Montague trying to restrain her husband]

Montague

Thou villain Capulet. [To his wife] Hold me not, let me go.

Lady Montague

Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

Capulet

What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

Lady Capulet

A crutch, a crutch — why call you for a sword?

Capulet

My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

Sampson

Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy
washing blow.
[The servants draw their swords and fight. Benvolio draws his sword and approaches the fighting men.]

Benvolio

Part, fools, put up your swords; you know not what     
you do.
[Tybalt draws his sword and addresses Benvolio]

Tybalt

What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

Benvolio

I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.

Tybalt

What, drawn and talk of peace! I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
Have at thee, coward!                                                    
[A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder. Enter the three Witches]

First Witch

Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.

Second Witch

Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

Third Witch

Harpier cries, 'Tis time, 'tis time.

Macbeth

I conjure you by that which you profess,
Howe'er you come to know it, answer me.
Though you untie the winds and let them fight
Against the churches; though the yeasty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up;
Though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down;
Though castles topple on their warders' heads;
Though palaces and pyramids do slope
Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure
Of nature's germens tumble all together,
Even till destruction sicken; answer me
To what I ask you.

Macbeth

Who can impress the forest, bid the tree
Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good.
Rebellious dead, rise never till the wood
Of Birnam rise; and our high-placed Macbeth
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath
To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart

Macbeth

Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder —
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch — thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,

Macbeth

Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder —
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch — thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,

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