’Gainst nature still: / Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up / Thine own life’s means!—

we may again / Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; / Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, / Do faithful homage, and receive free honours, / All which we pine for now.

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; / It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash / Is added to her wounds.

Let us rather / Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, / Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom. Each new morn / New widows howl, new orphans cry; new sorrows / Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds / As if it felt with Scotland, and yell’d out / Like syllable of dolour.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, / Was once thought honest

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: / Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, / Yet grace must still look so.

I shall do so; / But I must also feel it as a man: / I cannot but remember such things were, / That were most precious to me.—

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

Your leafy screens throw down, / And show like those you are.—

Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands / Th’ usurper’s cursed head: the time is free.