Has got my state bed for a snooze,
I've lent him my slippers, so I
May certainly stand in his shoes.
Blow softly, ye murmuring gales,
Ye feet rouse no echo in walking,
For though a dead man tells no tales,
Dead walls are much given to talking.
This knife shall be in at the death,
I'll stick him, then off safely get.
Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,