It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, / If it find heaven, must find it out tonight.

Better be with the dead, / Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, / Than on the torture of the mind to lie / In restless ecstasy.

Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ th’ olden time, / Ere humane statute purg’d the gentle weal; / Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d / Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, / That, when the brains were out, the man would die, / And there an end; but now they rise again, / With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, / And push us from our stools.

The gracious Duncan / Was pitied of Macbeth:—marry, he was dead:— / And the right valiant Banquo walk’d too late; / Whom, you may say, if’t please you, Fleance kill’d, / For Fleance fled.

His flight was madness: when our actions do not, / Our fears do make us traitors.

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.—

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.