Banquo: If you can look into the seeds of time And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak, then, to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate.
Witches: Lesser than Macbeth and greater, Not so happy, yet much happier.
Macbeth: My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
DUNCAN There’s no art To find the mind’s construction in the face. He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.