7. SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain.
[Alarums. Enter 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.
[Enter young Siward.]
What is thy name?
Thou'lt be afraid to hear it.
No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name
Than any is in hell.
My name's Macbeth.
The devil himself could not pronounce a title
More hateful to mine ear.
No, nor more fearful.
Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword
I'll prove the lie thou speak'st.
[They fight, and young Seward is slain.]
Thou wast born of woman.--
But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,
Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born.
[Alarums. Enter 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.
[Enter Malcolm and old 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.