Dearest Macbeth,

Art thou lost my dear? I have been searching for thee everywhere, and lo you are nowhere to be found.
My tragically frail heart yearns for thy presence. It seeks and thirsts for thy love, which was once as
mighty as Scotland itself. The past few days have wrought a startling notion within me. Tis better if I
make it known to thee now. I cannot live without you, Macbeth. All my wit and adroitness are futile
without someone I can share them with. Thy absence hath begun the chaos in my life. The sordid details
I will not go through, even if thou shalt beseech them. I will just tell thee that my nights have gone
without sleep.
Art thou lost my dear? I have molded thee with all the strength of my love. And yet was it inadequate
that thou hath left me here alone? Such a thought dost make me go terribly mad! These hollow halls
haunt me. And, my loneliness it hath devoured. The trembling beat of my heart longs to beat as one
with yours. What hath happened to thy heart? The root of your evasion could be from those slightly
convoluted prophecies. Those wretched witches! If I had known that those ill-willed revelations would
lead to the separation of my heart from thee, then those vile whispers I have filled your ears with, I
wouldst not have spoken. Remember that hour when I durst poison thy nobleness and turn thee to the
common enemy? My dear, please forgive me.
Art thou lost my dear? Come hither. Come home. Let not the troubles of the morrow arrest you. One
last notion doth this loneliness bring. Ambition is folly, and power, agonizing. Come home, Macbeth.
Leave all the rest to fate.
Your lonesome wife,
Lady Macbeth