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.
[Exit.]
[Alarums. Enter Macduff.]
MACDUFF.
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.
[Exit. Alarums.]
[Enter Malcolm and old Siward.]
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.
MALCOLM.
We have met with foes
That strike beside us.
SIWARD.
Enter, sir, the castle.
[Exeunt. Alarums.]
