Macbeth act 1, scene 3 translation

 

Macbeth act 1, scene 3 translation

Act 1, Scene 3 Translation

(Thunder. The three Witches enter.)

First Witch: Where have you been, sister?
Second Witch: Killing pigs.
Third Witch: And you, sister?
First Witch: A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap and was munching away. "Give me one," I said. "Get lost, witch!" the fat-bottomed hag cries. Her husband has sailed to Aleppo as master of the ship called The Tiger. But I’ll sail there in a sieve, and like a tailless rat, I’ll do things to him—I’ll do, I’ll do, I’ll do.
Second Witch: I’ll give you a wind to sail there.
First Witch: You’re kind.
Third Witch: And I’ll give you another.
First Witch: I already control all the other winds, and every port they blow into, all the directions marked on a sailor’s chart. I’ll drain him dry as hay. He won’t sleep, night or day. He’ll live a cursed man. For eighty-one weary weeks, he’ll waste away. Though his ship can’t be sunk, it will be tossed by storms. Look what I have here.
Second Witch: Show me, show me!
First Witch: Here I have a pilot’s thumb, wrecked as he was coming home.

(A drum sounds within.)

Third Witch: A drum, a drum! Macbeth is coming.
*ALL (dancing in a circle): Weird Sisters, hand in hand, swift travelers over sea and land, we dance around and around. Three times for you, three times for me, and three again to make nine. Quiet! The spell is ready.

(Macbeth and Banquo enter.)

Macbeth: I have never seen a day so foul and yet so fair.
Banquo: How far is it supposed to be to Forres?—What are these creatures? So withered and so wildly dressed, they don’t look like inhabitants of the Earth, yet they’re on it. Are you alive? Can you be questioned? You seem to understand me, each putting her rough finger to her skinny lips. You should be women, but your beards forbid me to believe it.
Macbeth: Speak, if you can. What are you?
First Witch: All hail, Macbeth! Hail to you, Thane of Glamis!
Second Witch: All hail, Macbeth! Hail to you, Thane of Cawdor!
Third Witch: All hail, Macbeth, you who will be king hereafter!
Banquo: Good sir, why do you start and seem afraid of things that sound so good?—In the name of truth, are you imaginary, or are you really what you appear to be? You greet my noble partner with current honors and a great prophecy of future nobility and royal hope, so that he seems spellbound. You say nothing to me. If you can look into the future and say which events will happen and which will not, speak to me, who neither begs for your favors nor fears your hate.
First Witch: Hail!
Second Witch: Hail!
Third Witch: Hail!
First Witch: Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
Second Witch: Not as fortunate, yet much happier.
Third Witch: You will father kings, though you will not be one yourself. So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
First Witch: Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
Macbeth: Wait, you half-tellers of truth. Tell me more. I know I am Thane of Glamis because my father, Sinel, died. But how can I be Thane of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor is alive, a prosperous gentleman. And to be king is beyond belief, just as much as to be Cawdor. Tell me where you got this strange information, or why you stop us on this blasted heath with such a prophetic greeting. Speak, I command you!

(The Witches vanish.)

Banquo: The earth has bubbles, just like water has, and these creatures were made of them. Where have they vanished to?
Macbeth: Into the air. What seemed solid has melted like breath in the wind. I wish they had stayed!
Banquo: Were such things really here, or have we eaten some insane root that makes us prisoners of madness?
Macbeth: Your children will be kings.
Banquo: You will be king.
Macbeth: And Thane of Cawdor, too. Isn’t that what they said?
Banquo: Exactly the same tune and words. Who’s here?

(Ross and Angus enter.)

Ross: The King was overjoyed to hear of your success, Macbeth. When he reads of your personal daring in the fight against the rebels, his amazement and his praise fight over which should belong to you or him. Then, reading further reports from that same day, he finds you fought just as fiercely against the Norwegian ranks, unafraid even while you created strange images of death. Messenger after messenger came pouring in, each one bearing news of your praises for defending the kingdom.
Angus: We are sent to thank you on behalf of our royal master, and to bring you to him, not to fully reward you here.
Ross: And as a pledge of a greater honor to come, he told me to call you Thane of Cawdor. So hail, most worthy thane, for the title is now yours.
Banquo (aside): What! Can the devil speak true?
Macbeth: The Thane of Cawdor is still alive. Why are you dressing me in borrowed robes?
Angus: The man who was Thane is still alive, but he’s under a death sentence for the life he deserves to lose. Whether he conspired with Norway, or secretly aided the rebel, or worked with both to ruin his country, I don’t know. But his capital treason, confessed and proven, has destroyed him.
Macbeth (to himself): Thane of Glamis and Thane of Cawdor! The greatest title (king) is still to come.
(To Ross and Angus) Thank you for your trouble.
(Aside to Banquo) Don’t you hope your children will be kings, since those who gave me the title of Cawdor promised them no less?
Banquo: If you trust that completely, it might fire you up to aim for the crown, in addition to becoming Thane of Cawdor. But it’s strange. Often, to lead us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us simple truths to win our trust, only to betray us in the most important matters.
(To Ross and Angus) Cousins, a word, please.

(They step aside.)

Macbeth (to himself): Two truths have been told, like happy introductions to the grand performance of becoming king.
(To Ross and Angus) I thank you, gentlemen.
(To himself) This supernatural temptation cannot be entirely bad, nor entirely good. If it’s bad, why has it given me a promise of success, starting with a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor. If it’s good, why do I give in to a thought whose horrible image makes my hair stand on end and my heart pound against my ribs unnaturally? Real dangers are less frightening than horrible imaginings. My thought of murder, which is still only a fantasy, shakes me so deeply that my ability to act is smothered by speculation, and nothing seems real except what isn’t.
Banquo: Look how our partner is lost in thought.
Macbeth (to himself): If fate wants me to be king, well, perhaps fate will just crown me without me having to do anything.
Banquo: New honors fit him like new clothes—they don’t feel comfortable until you’re used to them.
Macbeth (to himself): Come what may, time passes even through the roughest day.
Banquo: Worthy Macbeth, we are waiting for you.
Macbeth: Please forgive me. My dull mind was tangled up with forgotten matters. Kind gentlemen, your efforts are recorded in my memory where I read them daily. Let us go to the King.
(Aside to Banquo) Think about what has happened, and when we have time, having considered it further, let’s speak our minds freely to each other.
Banquo: Very gladly.
Macbeth: Till then, that’s enough. Come, friends.

(They all exit.)

 

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