We met, 'twas on a heath, and on that day
When victory had flushed us; really they
Both turned our blood to curds and stopped our way;
Sally, report has said, and I have got
A gothic notion, they know what is what;
They called me, dear, all manner of rum things:
While Cawdor's title in my noddle rings,
Would you believe it? but a flunkey brings
The news of Cawdor's death; I have to thank
That queer old file for giving me his rank.
One hailed me King—I pause to wipe my eye,
For it's affecting.—Sally, dear, good-bye!
Ever affectionately yours, till death
Pops on his extinguisher,
Samuel Macbeth.
Lady Macbeth comments on this:—
Of all rum goes, this is about the rummest!
Cawdor thou art, and shalt be—what thou'rt promised.
Yet will thy scruples my intentions clog;
To go at once the unadulterate hog
Is not thy nature. Thou'rt the style of buck
That has the will to sin, but not the pluck.
When Macbeth enters, she cries:—
Welcome, great Glamis!—welcome, worthy Cawdor!
Nay greater! (they embrace).
Macb.Ducky! Duncan comes to-night,
To stay and sup with us.
Lady M.Yes, that's all right.
(Significantly) When goes he hence?
Macb.To-morrow he'll endeavour.
Lady M. (mysteriously) Not if I knows it, Sammy—
trust me, never!