They have tied me to a stake. I cannot fly,

But, bear-like I must fight the course.—What’s he

That was not born of woman? Such a one

Am I to fear, or none.

What is thy name?

Thou’lt be afraid to hear it.

No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter name

Than any is in hell.

My name’s Macbeth.

The devil himself could not pronounce a title

More hateful to mine ear.

No, nor more fearful.

Thou liest, abhorred tyrant. With my sword

I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st.

Thou wast born of woman.

But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,

Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.

That way the noise is.—Tyrant, show thy face!

If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine,

My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still.

I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms

Are hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth,

Or else my sword, with an unbatter’d edge,

I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;

By this great clatter, one of greatest note

Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune!

And more I beg not.

This way, my lord;—the castle’s gently render’d:

The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight;

The noble thanes do bravely in the war,

The day almost itself professes yours,

And little is to do.

We have met with foes

That strike beside us.