Are less than horrible imaginings:
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man, that function
Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is
But what is not.

BANQUO.
Look, how our partner's rapt.

MACBETH.
[Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me
Without my stir.

BANQUO.
New honors come upon him,
Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould
But with the aid of use.

MACBETH.
[Aside.] Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

BANQUO.
Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.

MACBETH.
Give me your favor:--my dull brain was wrought
With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains
Are register'd where every day I turn
The leaf to read them.--Let us toward the king.--