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.

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.

The flighty purpose never is o'ertook / Unless the deed go with it. From this moment / The very firstlings of my heart shall be / The firstlings of my hand.

But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, / And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour / From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, / But float upon a wild and violent sea / Each way and move—

Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, / His mansion, and his titles, in a place / From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: / He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, / The most diminutive of birds, will fight, / Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.

What, you egg!

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

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