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"Things without all remedy
Should be without regard;
what's done, is done"
Lady Macbeth in Macbeth

Come what come may
time and the hour runs through the roughest day
(Macbeth)

Receive what sheer you may,
The night is long that never finds the day.

Ta da den trøyst du kan,
Natta vart lang om morgon aldri rann.

Derfor kan en si anbelangendes fylla og lidderligheten at der oppfører fylla seg som den verste vriompeis av en kranglefant. Den vekker og den slokker, hisser opp og hisser ned, erter og slår ned i støvla. Kort sagt, lurer den i søvn, slår den i en løgn, og stikker av. 2. akt, 3. scene (Inger Hagerups gjendiktning 1956).

Dersom ikke gjesten stadig blir minnet om at han er kjær og velsett, er festen solgt. Mat kan en få seg hjemme. I gjestebud må artigheten krydre hver rett, for ellers blir det dårlig kost. (Ingrid Hagerups gjendiktning 1958). Akt 3, scene 4.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

First Witch

Why, how now, Hecate! you look angerly.

HECATE

Have I not reason, beldams as you are,
Saucy and overbold? How did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth
In riddles and affairs of death;
And I, the mistress of your charms,
The close contriver of all harms,
Was never call'd to bear my part,
Or show the glory of our art?
And, which is worse, all you have done
Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now: get you gone,
And at the pit of Acheron
Meet me i' the morning: thither he
Will come to know his destiny:
Your vessels and your spells provide,
Your charms and every thing beside.
I am for the air; this night I'll spend
Unto a dismal and a fatal end:
Great business must be wrought ere noon:
Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
I'll catch it ere it come to ground:
And that distill'd by magic sleights
Shall raise such artificial sprites
As by the strength of their illusion
Shall draw him on to his confusion:
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
He hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear:
And you all know, security
Is mortals' chiefest enemy.

Music and a song within: 'Come away, come away, etc..

Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,
Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me.

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope

The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence

The life o' the building!

First Murderer: We are men, my liege.

Macbeth: Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red.