Original
Modern English
They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But, bear-like, I must fight the course. What’s he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none.
They’ve tied me to a stake; I can’t run away, But like a bear, I have to fight my fate. Who is he Who wasn’t born of a woman? Should I fear such a man, Or no one at all?
What is thy name?
What’s your name?
Thou’lt be afraid to hear it.
You’ll be afraid to hear it.
No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell.
No; even if you call yourself a name Hotter than any in hell.
My name’s Macbeth.
My name’s Macbeth.
The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear.
The devil himself couldn’t say a name More disgusting to me.
No, nor more fearful.
No, nor one more frightening.
Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st.
You’re lying, hated tyrant; with my sword I’ll prove you’re wrong.
Thou wast born of woman But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.
You were born of a woman But I laugh at swords, I mock weapons, Wielded by a man who’s born of a woman.
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 hired 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.
The noise is coming from over there. Tyrant, show yourself! If you’re dead and I didn’t kill you, My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me forever. I won’t strike at worthless men, whose arms Are just hired to carry weapons: either you, Macbeth, Or else I’ll put my sword back in its sheath, Unused. That’s where you should be; With all this noise, someone important Must be nearby. Let me find him, luck! And I won’t ask for anything more.
This way, my lord; the castle’s gently render’d: The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war; The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do.
This way, my lord; the castle has surrendered: The tyrant’s soldiers are fighting on both sides; The noblemen are fighting bravely in the battle; The day is almost won, And there’s not much left to do.
We have met with foes That strike beside us.
We’ve encountered enemies Who strike from behind us.
Enter, sir, the castle.
Come, sir, let’s enter the castle.