Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.
Hardmoor
By William Shakespeare (1564–1616)M
B
So wither’d, and so wild in their attire;
That look not like the inhabitants o’ the 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. You should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
M
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B
Things that do sound so fair?—I’ the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye shew? My noble partner
You greet with present grace, and great prediction
Of noble having, and of royal hope,
That he seems rapt withal; to me you speak not.
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.
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So, all hail, Macbeth, and Banquo!
1 W
M
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.—Speak, I charge you.[W
B
And these are of them.—Whither are they vanish’d!
M
As breath into the wind.—Would they had staid!