Witches -- Fair is foul, and foul is fair; Hover through the fog and filthy air
-- Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble
Banquo -- That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' Earth And yet are on 't?—Live you? Or are you aught That man may question?
-- Speak, then, to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate
-- Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?
Lady Macbeth -- Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty
Hectate -- And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art?
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