“I’ll give thee a wind,” said the second witch.
“Thou art kind.”
“And I another,” said the third witch.
“I myself have all the other,” continued the first witch, gloating over the revenge she intended to take on the husband of the woman who had repulsed her, and she continued in a sort of chant:
“And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know In the shipman’s card. 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 seven-nights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have.”
“Show me, show me!” cried the second witch eagerly.
“Here I have a pilot’s thumb, Wrecked as homeward he did come.”
At this moment across the heath came the roll of a drum and the tramp of marching feet.
“A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come!” cried the third witch.
Then the three fearsome creatures, linking hands, solemnly performed a wild dance, waving their skinny arms in strange gestures, and uttering a discordant wail: