Ripp'd from the Womb

SIWARD.

Fare you well.--

Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night,

Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight.

MACDUFF.

Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath,

Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.

MACBETH.

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.

MACBETH.

Thou wast born of woman.--

But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,

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

SIWARD.

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.

MACBETH.

Why should I play the Roman fool, and die

On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes

Do better upon them.

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield

To one of woman born.

MACDUFF

Macduff was ripp'd from the womb.

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

Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,

"Here may you see the tyrant."

ALL.

Hail, King of Scotland!