My husband must be king!
And therein, I, his queen
Shall rule with an iron fist
When he is gone.

When his codfish belly,
Bloated of ale and hemlock
Festers with worms in the peat,
I shall rule all.

And none shall know the blood
On these, my royal hands
When the house of Lady Macbeth
Wears robe and crown.

The blood, red, like paint it is,
Though I wash from the deepest well.
This soap! This blistering soap!
I’ll have her head!

The maid who gave this blistering soap!
Not soap, but lies of lyes it is!
Lies of lyes! And these hands!
Most royal hands

Still stained with their blood, and now his,
My most unbeloved husband.
Yet stab him I did not
With knife nor sword.

Dirty hands stained evermore?
Then queenly gloves I’ll keep.
What? These stained, tattered rags
Are not my gloves.

Off with her head, I demand of no one there.
I am alone. No sound in the castle lurks.
Is that my husband there
Moaning shadow?