Ah,my sisters dear, merry met are we!
Set upon this plain by blackest night we three.
Tis passing well our presence here marks the night,
I taste an evil wind that appoints fates by blight.
Alas then by the itching of my nose,
most wicked death this dusk unfolds.
secret must be, our meet upon this heath,
anon, Macbeth doth come, sisters be now brief.
A pall that's fair and foul again, measures now mixed ,
I fear tonight by all the Norns, his cruelest fate be fixed.
I, low by the fog that masks, this evil night bespeaks,
Macbeth attends us now, heed well, his future now he seeks.
The Crones await






3 old applause
