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!