| Another part of the field |
|
 | Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. | |
|
| Turn, hell-hound, turn! | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I have no words: My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! | |
|
| Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield, To one of woman born. | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd. | |
|
| Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow'd my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believed, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee. | |
|
|
|
|
|
