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!