If you can look into the seeds of time And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate. The Thane of Cawdor lives. Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme. This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill, cannot be good. I am Thane of Cawdor.
Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings.
But what is not. There's not art To find the mind's consturction in the face. He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust. Stars, hide your fires, Let not light see my black and deep desires, The eye wink at the hand. Yet let that be, Which the eye fears when it is done to see.