Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire?
Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown’d withal.
Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valor arm’d, Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault.
Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear’d: ’tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety.
But all’s too weak; For brave Macbeth,—well he deserves that name,— Disdaining fortune, with his brandish’d steel, Which smok’d with bloody execution, Like valor’s minion, Carv’d out his passag tTill he fac’d the slave; And ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chaps, And fix’d his head upon our battlements.