Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care / Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: / Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until / Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill / Shall come against him.

Let every soldier hew him down a bough, / And bear’t before him. Thereby shall we shadow / The numbers of our host, and make discovery / Err in report of us.

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.—

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

Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, / And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born, / Yet I will try the last. Before my body / I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; / And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”

That will never be: / Who can impress the forest; bid the tree / Unfix his earth-bound root?

As I did stand my watch upon the hill, / I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought, / The wood began to move.