Somewhere far beyond the light of the sun the weird sisters huddle. Thunder sounds in the distance. They sense the approach of the queen of darkness and suddenly she’s there. They scream and give vent to their fear with animal noises of all kinds. Hecate towers over them, piercing the dark with her fierce gaze.
‘How did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth,
In riddles, and affairs of death:
And I, the mistress of your charms,
The close contriver of all harms,
Was never called to play my part,
Or show the glory of our art?
And, which is worse, all you have done
Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful and wrathful: who, as others do,
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now: get you gone,
And at the pit of Acheron
Meet me i’ the morning: thither he
Will come to know his destiny.
Your vessels and your spells provide,
Your charms, and everything beside.
I am for the air: this night I’ll spend
Unto a dismal and a fatal end:
Great business must be wrought ere noon.
Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound:
I’ll catch it ere it come to ground:
And that, distilled by magic sleights,
Shall raise such artificial sprites,
As, by the strength of their illusion,
Shall draw him on to his confusion.
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
His hopes ‘hove wisdom, grace and fear:
And you all know, security
Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.
Hark! I am called: my spirit, see,
Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me.’