There's blood upon thy face.
Your blasted instruments of darkness,
Like the Russian bear or the Hyrcan tiger,
Undaunted by death or the invisible hand of hell,
Didst dash'd his brains out;
In every point twice done and then done double.
Good things of day begin to droop.
Here lay the most royal Duncan; his silver skin laced with his golden blood.
The expedition of his violent destruction,
Too cold for hell,
Is smother'd in the wine of life.
Fantastical blanket of mischief summons thee to hell.
Torture of the mind,
For imperfect prisoners that saw him die.
Tear to pieces that tender bond,
Of two perfectest friends of foes.
Brave Macbeth,
I dreamt last night,
That he hath ask'd for you.
