Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme. I thank you, gentlemen.
This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor. If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Two things become true, so it seems like I will be the king. Thank you, gentlemen. This supernatural temptation does not seem like a bad thing, but good either.
If it is a bad thing, why was I promised a promotion that turned out to be true?
Now I'm the thane of Cawdor, just like they said I would be. But if this is a good thing, why do I find myself thinking about murdering King Duncan, a thought so horrifying that it makes my hair stand on end and my heart pound inside my chest? The dangers that actually threaten me here and now frighten me less than the horrible things I'm imagining. Even though it's just a fantasy so far, the mere thought of committing murder shakes me up so much that I hardly know who I am anymore. My ability to act is stifled by my thoughts and speculations, and the only things that matter to me are things that don't really exist.
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