The weird sisters said their peace, at last.
And I could feel it--their poison that mixed with the air.
Like impure thought, blind to mortal eye, and true to its task.
"All hail, Macbeth, Thane of Cawdor," they plot their snare.

And me, the noble and fair man I've always been, I cursed this seance.
No usurped crown can take lightly to the mind of its host.
The same crown offered to none other than my Fleance.
For his sake, let God and men know, I will do the most.