MACBETH
Why should I play the Roman fool, and die
On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes
Do better upon them.
MACDUFF
Turn, hell-hound, turn!
MACBETH
Of all men else I have avoided :
But get back; my soul is too much charg’d
With blood of already.
MACDUFF
I have no words;
My voice is in my sword: bloodier villain
Than terms can give out!
MACBETH
losest labour:
As easy mayst the intrenchant air
With keen sword impress, as make me bleed:
Let fall blade on vulnerable crests;
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield
To one of woman born.
MACDUFF
Despair charm;
And let the angel whom still serv’d
Tell , Macduff was from his mother’s womb
Untimely ripp’d.
MACBETH
Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
For it 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 .
MACDUFF
Then yield , coward,
And live to be the show and gaze o’ th’ time.
We’ll have , as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,
“Here may you see the tyrant.”
MACBETH
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 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!”
MALCOLM
I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d.
SIWARD
Some must go off; and yet, by these I see,
So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
MALCOLM
Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
ROSS
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.
SIWARD
Then he is dead?
ROSS
Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow
Must not be measur’d by his worth, for then
It no end.
SIWARD
Had he his hurts before?
ROSS
Ay, on the front.
SIWARD
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.
MALCOLM
He’s worth more sorrow,
And that I’ll spend for him.
SIWARD
He’s worth no more.
They say he parted well and paid his score:
And so, God be with him!—Here comes newer comfort.
MACDUFF
Hail, King, for so art. Behold, where stands
Th’ usurper’s cursed head: the time is free.
I see compass’d with kingdom’s pearl,
That speak my salutation in their minds;
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,—
Hail, King of Scotland!
ALL
Hail, King of Scotland!
MALCOLM
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 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.