On a desolate heath the weird sisters awaited Hecate, Queen of the Witches. Deafening thunder claps announced her imminent arrival.

“Greetings, Hecate! You look angry!” the first witch said.

“Have I not reason, hags as you are, disobedient and forward?
Why did you dare to trade and traffic with Macbeth
in riddles and affairs of death?
I, mistress of your charms,
overseeing all your harms,
was never called to bear my part.
No chance to show the glory of our art?
And what is worse, all you have done
has been but for a wayward son-
spiteful, and wrathful,
who loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now- get you gone,
meet me in the morning at the pit of Acheron.
He will come, to know his destiny.
Your vessels and your spells provide,
your charms, and everything beside.
I am leaving now – this night I’ll spend
dreaming of a dismal and fatal end.
Great business must be wrought ‘ere noon.
Upon the corner of the moon
there hangs a potion profound-
I’ll catch it here as it falls to the ground.
That, distilled by magic tricks shall produce
ghostly images which by the strength of their illusion
shall overwhelm him in confusion.
He shall spurn Fate, scorn death, and bear
his hopes above wisdom, grace and fear:
And you all know, security
is mortals’ chiefest enemy.”

Hecate was distracted by soothing music and sweet singing, “Come away, come away.”

“Listen I am called: my little spirit, see,
sitting in a foggy cloud awaiting me.”

The first witch said to her sisters, “Hurry, she will be back again soon.”

The weird sisters, chastised by their mistress, fled to fulfil her demands. Macbeth’s fate was sealed.