Banquo

Macbeth
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Banquo
How far is ’t called to Forres?—What are these,
So withered, and so wild in their attire,
That look not like th’ inhabitants o’ th’ Earth
And yet are on ’t?—Live you? Or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand me
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips.
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Macbeth
Stay, you imperfect speakers. Tell me more.
By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis.
But how of Cawdor? 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. Say from whence
You owe this strange intelligence or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting.
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Macbeth
Do you not hope your children shall be kings,
When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me
Promised no less to them?

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

Banquo
That,
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Duncan
O worthiest cousin,
The sin of my ingratitude even now
Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before
That swiftest wing of recompense is slow
To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved,Metaphor
That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been mine! Only I have left to say,
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Duncan
This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble,
Which still we thank as love.

Banquo
This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath
Smells wooingly here.
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