A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawked at, and killed.
Act iii. Sc, 1.
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,
And put a barren scepter in my gripe,
Thence to be wrenched with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine succeeding.
Act iii. Sc. 1.
Mur. We are men, my liege.
Mac. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men.
Act iii. Sc. 2.
We have scotched the snake, not killed it.
Act iii. Sc. 2.
Duncan is in his grave!
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.