I shall report that which I say I saw, Macb. Well, say, Sir. Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. Macb. Liar, and slave! Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. Macb. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt th' equivocation of the fiend, - That lies like truth: "Fear not, till Birnam wood Comes toward Dunsinane. — Arm, arm, and out! There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here. And wish th' estate o' the world were now undone. SCENE VI. The Same. A Plain before the Castle. [Exeunt. Enter, with Drums and Colours, MALCOLM, old SIWARD, MACDUFF, &c., and their Army with Boughs. Mal. Now near enough: your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are. You, worthy uncle, Shall, with my cousin, your right-noble son, Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. Macd. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. [Exeunt. Alarums continued. SCENE VII. The Same. Another Part of the Plain. Enter MACBETH. Macb. 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. Enter young Siward. Thou 'It be afraid to hear it. Yo. Siw. What is thy name? Macb. 1 Yo. Siw. No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name, Than any is in hell. Macb. My name's Macbeth. Yo. Siw. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. Macb. No, nor more fearful. Yo. Siw. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant: with my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. Macb. [They fight, and young SIWARD is slain. Thou wast born of woman: But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that 's of a woman born. Alarums. Enter MACDUFF. Macd. That way the noise is. [Exit. Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be'st slain, and with no stroke of mine, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou should'st be; Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! [Exit. Alarum. Mac. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die Macd. Macb. Re-enter Macduff. Turn, hell-hound, turn. But get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already. Macd. I have no words; My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! Macb. [They fight. Thou losest labour. As easy may'st 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. Macd. Despair thy charm; And let the angel, whom thou still hast serv'd, Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd, That keep the word of promise to our ear, I'll not fight with thee. Macd. Then, yield thee, coward, "Here may you see the tyrant." I will not yield, Macb. I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough." [Exeunt, fighting. Retreat. Flourish. Re-enter, with Drum and Colours, MAL- Mal. I would, the friends we miss were safe arriv'd. So great a day as this is cheaply bought. Mal. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. Rosse. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt: He only liv'd but till he was a man, The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died. Siw. Then he is dead? Rosse. Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then It hath no end. He's worth no more: and paid his score, And so, God be with him! Here comes newer comfort. Re-enter MACDUff, with Macbeth's Head. Macd. Hail, king! for so thou art. The usurper's cursed head: the time is free. Behold, where stands I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl, All. Hail, king of Scotland! We shall not spend a large expense of time, Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen, That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time, and place. So, thanks to all at once, and to each one, [Flourish. Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. [Flourish. Exeunt. PRINTED BY BERNH. TAUCHNITZ JUN. |