Doubtful it stood, As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald— Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villanies of nature Do swarm upon him— from the Western Isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied, And fortune, on his damnèd quarrel smiling, Showed like a rebel’s whore. But all’s too weak, For brave Macbeth—well he deserves that name— Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel, Which smoked with bloody execution, Like valor’s minion carved out his passage Till he faced the slave; Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseamed him from the nave to th’ chops, And fixed his head upon our battlements Reading Macbeth again, after my encounter with death itself and my new purpose. I feel changed the same way Macbeth probably did once. I only hope unlike him, I don’t fall into the same downward spiral…