Posthumous silence rattles even the most subtle of mine own deadened nerves of Despondence. Who of shrillest tongue and sword could rip trot these bloodied Hands what bloodied them? By Ball’s sword 50 swift, what penniless harlot dare Inhabit the seed what bringing my undoing!? Nay, hence apparitions speak the Uprooting of giants, even of my own uprooting! It is but a fool’s paradise to Squelch my word of England, for it now its law. Those who oppose will no longer. Those who rebel will be no more.
King MacBeth, whose word will rumble Throughout no longer as Thane, but that worthy of a golden crown! See to it Now that those who dare challenge my might within the foresight of the Weird Be dealt with in most fitting manner aviators! From their necks, their head shall Tumble down to the foulest pit of hell, a mere stepping stone to the devil’s own Throne!… A throne whose seat juxtaposed… Would be mine own. (MacBeth approaches the castle doors where an outside porter stands.
Porter: Would, what do yashmak such sundry suspicions- (The Porter is slapped back-handed by the now furious Macbeth from atop his horse. ) MacBeth: Do not interrupt me midst the reflection of one’s inner! You know N thing of torment, foul hellion of black dirt! (The Porter, utterly bewildered, opens the gate for MacBeth. ) Porter: Indeed, milord, don’t knows a thing!
