My Father's Wit, And My Mother's Tongue,

Do You Bite Your Thumb At Us, Sir?

The Thane Of Cawdor Lives, A Prosperous Gentleman; And To Be King Stands Not Within The Prospect Of Belief, No More Than To Be Cawdor.

Adieu, Adieu, Adieu! Remember Me.

Nature Does Require Her Time Of Preservation, Which Perforce, I Her Frail Son Amongst My Brethren Mortal, Must Give My Attendance To.

My Love Is Thaw'd; Which, Like A Waxen Image 'gainst A Fire, Bears No Impression Of The Thing It Was