Act 1, Scene 1

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

Act 1, Scene 2

...two spent swimmers, that do cling together / And choke their art.

Which smoked with bloody execution

Dismay’d not this / Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?
Yes; / As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.

...they were / As cannons overcharged with double cracks, so they / Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; / They smack of honour both.

What a haste looks through his eyes!

No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive / Our bosom interest: go pronounce his present death, / And with his former title greet Macbeth. / ...What he hath lost noble Macbeth hath won.

Act 1, Scene 3

I will drain him dry as hay: / Sleep shall neither night nor day / Hang upon his pent-house lid; / He shall live a man forbid: / Weary se’nnights nine times nine / Shall he dwindle, peak and pine: / Though his bark cannot be lost, / Yet it shall be tempest-tost.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!
All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!

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 favours nor your hate.

Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
Not so happy, yet much happier.
Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them.

...have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?

What, can the devil speak true?

The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me
In borrow’d robes?

Glamis, and thane of Cawdor!
The greatest is behind.

But ’tis strange:
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s
In deepest consequence.

This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill, cannot be good: if ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor:
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature? Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings:
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
Is smother’d in surmise, and nothing is
But what is not.

Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.