Do we but find the tyrant's power tonight, / Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight.

Of all men else I have avoided thee: / But get thee back; my soul is too much charg’d / With blood of thine already.

I will not yield, / To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, / And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.

A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.