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Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air,
Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy ; the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken.
Too nice, and yet too true!
What is the newest grief?
Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;
Each minute teems a new one.
How does my wife ?
Rosse. Why, well.
And all my children?
Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace ?
Rosse. No; they were well at peace, when I did leave them.
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech; How goes it ?
Rosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor
Of many worthy fellows that were out;
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot :
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight
To doff their dire distresses.
Be it their comfort,
We are coming thither: gracious England hath
Lent us good Šiward, and ten thousand men:
An older, and a better soldier, none
That Christendom gives out.
'Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words,
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them.
What concern they :
The general cause? or is it a fee-grief,
Due to some single breast ?
No mind, that's honest, But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you
If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound,
That ever yet they heard.
Humph! I guess at it.
Rosse. Your castle is surpris’d; your wife, and babes,
Savagely slaughter’d: to relate the manner,
Wore, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,
To adu. the death of you.
Merciful heaven !-
What, man ! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Macd. My children too?
Wife, children, servants, a
That could be found.
And I must be from thence !
My wife kill'd too?
I have said.
Be comforted :
Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.
Macd. He has no children.—All my pretty ones ?
Did you say, all ? All ?
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop ?
Mai. Dispute it like a man.
I shall do so;
But I gust feel it as a man :
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.—Did heaven look on,
And would not take their part ? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Feli slaughter on their souls : Heaven rest them now !
Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword : let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue !–But gentle heaven,
Cut short all intermission; front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself ;
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven forgive him too!
This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the king; our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may ;
The night is long, that never finds the day.
The action changes to Dunsinane, where the English powers, led on by Young Malcolm, Siward, and Macduff, are joined by the loyal Scotch. The united forces march towards Dunsinane Castle to attack Macbeth.
SCENE III.—Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
Enter MACBETH, Doctor, and Attendants.
Macb. Bring me no more reports ; let them fly all;
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,
cannot taint with fear. Then fly, false thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures:
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sagg with doubt, nor shake with fear.
Enter a Servant.
Thou cream-fac'd loon.
Where got’st thou that goose look ?
Serv. There is ten thousand-
Geese, villain ?
Soldiers, sir. Macb. What soldiers, patch ? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine. Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
Serv. The English force, so please you. Macb. Take thy face hence.—Seyton !-I am sick at heart. When ) behold—Seyton, I say !- This push Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now. I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf : And that which should accompany old age, As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, Curses not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not. Seyton !
Enter SEYTON. Sey. What is your gracious pleasure ? Macb.
What news moro
Sey. All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.
Macb. I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hack'd
Give me my armor.
'Tis not needed yet.
Macb. I'll put it on.
Send out more horses, skirr the country round;
Hang those that talk of fear.–Give me mine armor, --
How does your patient, doctor ?
Not so sick, my los
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
Cure her of that:
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart ?
Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
Macb. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.-
Come, put mine armor on; give me my staff :-
Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the thanes fly from me :-
Come, sir, dispatch :-If thou could’st, doctur, cast
The water of my land, find her disease,
purge it to a sound and pristine health,
I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again.
What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug,
Would scour these English hence ? Hearest thou of tiem i
Doct. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation
Makes us hear something.
Bring it after me.
I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
SCENE IV. Country near Dunsinane : A Wood in view. Enter, with drums and colors, MALCOLM, old SIWARD, and his Song
MACDUFF, MENTETH, CATHNESS, ANGUS, LENOX, Rosse, ana
Mal. Cousins, I hope, the days are near at hand,
That chambers will be safe.
We doubt it nothing.
Siw. What wood is this before us ?
The wood of Birnam.
Mal. Let every soldier hew him down a bough,
And bear't before him ; thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host, and make discovery
Err in report of us.
It shall be done.
Siw. We learn no other, but the confident tyrant
Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure
Our setting down before't.
'Tis his main hope :
For where there is advantage to be given,
Both more and less have given him the revolt;
And none serve with him but constrained things,
Whose hearts are absent too.
Let our just censures
Attend the true event, and put we on
The time approaches,
That will with due decison make us know
What we shall say we have, and what we owe.
Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate:
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate :
Towards which, advance the war.
SCENE V.-Dunsinane. Within the Castle.
Enter, with drums and colors, MACBETH, SEYTON, and Soldiers.
Macb. Hang out our banners on the outward walls ;
The cry is still
, They come : Our castle's strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie,
Till famine, and the ague, eat them up;
Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home. What is that noise ?
[A cry witnin, of vinen
Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord.
Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears :
The time has been, my senses would have coold
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir
As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts,
Cannot once start me. -Wherefore was that cry?
Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead.
Macb. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle !
Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour
And then is heard no more : it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Enter a Messenger.
Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly
Mess. Gracious my lord,
I shall report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do it.
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.