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Out, damned spot! Out, I say!—One, two. Why, then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky!
Go, prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-livered boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul!
Despair thy charm, And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb Untimely ripped.
Come this way, my lord. The castle has been surrendered without a fight. Macbeth’s soldiers are fighting on both sides. Our noblemen are battling bravely
Thou losest labor. 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 charmèd life, which must not yield To one of woman born.
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