Macbeth Page #7

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Here let you lie till famine and the ague eat you up.

Were you not forced with those that should be ours,

We might have met you dareful, beard to beard,

and beat you backward home.

This way, my lord; the castle's gently render'd.

We have met with foes that strike beside us.

What's he that was not born of woman?

Such a one am I to fear, or none.

Poor a child(?)

Thou wast born of woman; but swords I smile at,

weapons laugh to scorn,

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

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.

Turn, hell-hound, turn!

Of all men else I have avoided thee; but get thee back.

My soul is too much charged with

blood of thine already.

I have no words; my voice is in my sword.

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield,

to one of woman born.

Despair thy charm.

And let the angel whom thou still hast served tell thee,

Macduff was from his mother's womb

untimely ripp'd.

Untimely ripp'd!

Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,

and be these juggling fiends no more believed,

that palter with us in a double sense;

that keep the word of promise to our ear,

and break it to our hope.

I'll not fight with thee.

Then yield thee, coward, and live to be

the show and gaze o' the time.

We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,

painted on a pole, and underwrit,

'Here may you see the tyrant.'

I will not yield, to kiss the ground

before young Malcolm's feet,

and to be baited with the rabble's curse.

Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,

and thou opposed, being of no woman born,

Yet I will try the last.

Lay on, Macduff.

And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'

Hail, king! for so thou art.

Behold, where stands the usurper's cursed head.

The time is free.

Hail, Malcolm, king of Scotland!

Hail!

Peace! the charm's wound up.

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