(And one half, yo)
(MacBeth departs from the three witches with
a slightly relieved attitude, but as he rides to his
castle, he realizes that no apparition had shed any
light on the owner of the throne after he had passed.
He begins to contemplate on the matter.)
MacBeth: Th’ head clad nor bloody infant vex me in manners of lineage, only the Crowned child of mine own face without. He, and accursed Banquo, whose Posthumous silence rattles even the most subtle of mine own deadened nerves of Despondence. Who of shrillest tongue and sword could rip from these bloodied Hands what bloodied them? By Baal’s sword so swift, what penniless harlot dare Inhabit the seed what bringeth 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! I see to it Now that those who dare challenge my might within the foresights of the Weïrd Be dealt with in most fitting manner of traitors! 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: M’lord, what do y’speak 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 othing of torment, foul hellion of black dirt!
(The Porter, utterly bewildered, opens the gate for MacBeth.)
Porter: Indeed, m’lord, don’t knowst a thing! In y’go, m’lord, nice and quick!
Porter:… What in hell is his problem?