Out, damned spot! Out, I say!—One, two. Why, then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! A soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?—Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him.
The English army is near lead by Malcolm
Let every soldier hew him down a bough And bear ’t before him. Thereby shall we shadow
The queen, my lord, is dead.
Thou wast born of woman. But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandished by man that’s of a woman born.
Hail, king! For so thou art. Behold where stands The usurper’s cursèd head. The time is free. I see thee compassed with thy kingdom’s pearl, That speak my salutation in their minds, Whose voices I desire aloud with mine. Hail, King of Scotland!
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