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Carsomyr Talking to Himself

Sergeant:
Yes;
As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.
If I say sooth, I must report they were
As cannons overcharged with double cracks, so they
Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe:
Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,
Or memorise another Golgotha,
I cannot tell.
But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.
 
DUNCAN:
So well thy words become thee as thy wounds;
They smack of honour both. Go get him surgeons.

"Exit Sergeant, attended"

DUNCAN:
Who comes here?

"Enter ROSS"
 

Oooh, another spectator, Mayor West!


*ahem*



MALCOLM:
The worthy thane of Ross.

LENNOX:
What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look
That seems to speak things strange.

ROSS:
God save the king!
 
ROSS:
From Fife, great king;
Where the <s>Norweyan</s> banners flout the sky
And fan our people cold. Norway himself,
With terrible numbers,
Assisted by that most disloyal traitor
The thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict;
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof,
Confronted him with self-comparisons,
Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm.
Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude,
The victory fell on us.
 
Shut up, Mayor! I don't have to take this abuse from you! :angry:
 
Oh for FUCKS SAKE MAN! Haven't we heard enough about that goddamned taffy already?!? :banghead:
 
Bah, the crowd is still here, Swede. They expect us to perform...

Return to Status Quo for now?
 
ROSS:
That now
Sweno, the <s>Norways'</s> king, craves composition:
Nor would we deign him burial of his men
Till he disbursed at Saint Colme's inch
Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
 
(I swear to God, Cars... This is gonna be a veeeerrryyy long play if you keep that up!)


DUNCAN:
No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive
Our bosom interest: go pronounce his present death,
And with his former title greet Macbeth.
 
The Tragedy of Macbeth
Act 1, Scene 3

"Thunder... Enter the three Witches"

First Witch:
Where hast thou been, sister?
 
Third Witch:
Sister, where thou?

First Witch:
A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd:--
'Give me,' quoth I:
'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger:
But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do.
 
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