Scene VII

They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,But, bear-like, I must fight the course. What’s heThat was not born of woman? Such a oneAm I to fear, or none.

No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter nameThan any is in hell.

The devil himself could not pronounce a titleMore hateful to mine ear.

Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my swordI’ll prove the lie thou speak’st. They fight and Young Siward is slain.

Thou wast born of womanBut swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born. Exit.

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 armsAre hired to bear their staves: either thou, Macbeth,Or else my sword with an unbatter’d edgeI sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;By this great clatter, one of greatest noteSeems bruited. Let me find him, fortune!And more I beg not. Exit. Alarums.

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 foesThat strike beside us.