What He Hath Lost, Noble Macbeth Hath Won.

Hail!

A stanchless avarice,
It is a kneel that summons thee to heaven or to hell.
Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame,
That the devil speak true?
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
There's no art To find the mind's construction on the face.
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day,
And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are.

Hail!

Stars, hide your fires!
Let not light see my black and deep desires.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know:
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
When the battle's lost and won,
The tears shall drown the wind.

Hail!

The night is long that never finds the day;
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,
But the serpent under it.
An equivocator could not equivocate to heaven
To plague the inventor.
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?

All hail, Macbeth. Hail! Hail! Hail!