He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause / Within the belt of rule.

I will not be afraid of death and bane, / Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane / I cannot taint with fear. What’s the boy Malcolm? / Was he not born of woman?

I pull in resolution; and begin / To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend, / That lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnam wood / Do come to Dunsinane;” and now a wood / Comes toward Dunsinane.—

I have almost forgot the taste of fears. / The time has been, my senses would have cool’d / To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair / Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir / As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with horrors; / Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, / Cannot once start me.

I ’gin to be aweary of the sun, / And wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.—

She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word.

Thou wast born of woman. / But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, / Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.

What’s he / That was not born of woman? Such a one / Am I to fear, or none.

They have tied me to a stake. I cannot fly, / But, bear-like I must fight the course.—