Page:Macbeth (1918) Yale.djvu/99

Macbeth, V. vii

Young Siw. No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name

Than any is in hell.

Macb. My name's Macbeth.

Young Siw. The devil himself could not pronounce a title

More hateful to mine ear.

Macb. No, nor more fearful.

Young Siw. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword

I'll prove the lie thou speak'st.

Fight, and Young Siward slain.

Macb. Thou wast born of woman:

But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,

Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born.

Exit.

Macd. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face:

If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine,

My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still.

I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms

Are hir'd to bear their staves: either thou, Macbeth,

Or else my sword with an unbatter'd edge

I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;

By this great clatter, one of greatest note

Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune!

And more I beg not.

Siw. This way, my lord; the castle's gently render'd:

 22 bruited: noised

24 render'd: surrendered 