1 Be this the whetstone of your sword.
2 With my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st.
3 But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born.
4 Either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe again undeeded.
5 Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom.
6 This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, Of your mere own.
7 Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.
8 What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or th Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl.
9 I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before, More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed.