But know not how to do it.
Well, say, sir.
As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The wood began to move.
Liar, and slave!
Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so.
Within this three mile may you see it coming;
I say, a moving grove.
If thou speak'st false,
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,
I care not if thou dost for me as much. -
I pull in resolution; and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane;" and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane. - Arm, arm, and out! -
If this which he avouches does appear,
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.
I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun,
And wish the estate o' the world were now undone. -
Ring the alarum bell! - Blow, wind! come, wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back.
SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle.
[Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, &c.,
and their Army, with boughs.]
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,
Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we
Shall take upon's what else remains to do,
According to our order.
Fare you well. -
Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night,
Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight.
Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath,
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain.
[Alarums. Enter Macbeth.]
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.]
What is thy name?
Thou'lt be afraid to hear it.
No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name
Than any is in hell.
My name's Macbeth.
The devil himself could not pronounce a title
More hateful to mine ear.
No, nor more fearful.
Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword
I'll prove the lie thou speak'st.
[They fight, and young Seward 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.]
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.
[Enter Malcolm and old Siward.]
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.
We have met with foes
That strike beside us.
Enter, sir, the castle.
SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field.
Why should I play the Roman fool, and die
On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes
Do better upon them.
Turn, hell-hound, turn!
Of all men else I have avoided thee:
But get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd
With blood of thine already.
I have no words, -
My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out!
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.
Despair thy charm;
And let the angel whom thou still hast serv'd
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
For it hath cow'd my better part of man!
And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to our ear,
And break it to our hope! - I'll not fight with thee.
Then yield thee, coward,
And live to be the show and gaze o' the time:
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,
"Here may you see the tyrant."
I will not yield,
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,
And to be baited with the rabble's curse.
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last. Before my body
I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff;
And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!"
[Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old
Siward, Ross, Lennox, Angus, Caithness, Menteith, and Soldiers.
I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd.
Some must go off; and yet, by these I see,
So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
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.
Then he is dead?
Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow
Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then
It hath no end.
Had he his hurts before?
Ay, on the front.
Why then, God's soldier be he!
Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
I would not wish them to a fairer death:
And, so his knell is knoll'd.
He's worth more sorrow,
And that I'll spend for him.
He's worth no more:
They say he parted well, and paid his score:
And so, God be with him! - Here comes newer comfort.
[Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.]
Hail, king, for so thou art: behold, where stands
The usurper's cursed head: the time is free:
I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl
That speak my salutation in their minds;
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine, -
Hail, King of Scotland!
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,
Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland
In such an honour nam'd. What's more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time, -
As calling home our exil'd friends abroad,
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny;
Producing forth the cruel ministers
Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen, -
Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands
Took off her life; - this, and what needful else
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,
Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.