Ment.
The English power is near, led on by Malcolm,
His uncle Siward^{6 note}, and the good Macduff,
Revenges burn in them: for their dear causes
Would, to the bleeding, and the grim alarm,
Excite the mortified man^{7 note}

Ang.
Near Birnam wood
Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.

Cath.
Who knows, if Donalbain be with his brother?

Len.
For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file

Of all the gentry; there is Siward's son,
And many unrough youths^{8 note}

Ment.
What does the tyrant?

Cath.
Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies:
Some say, he's mad; others, that lesser hate him,
Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain,
He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause
Within the belt of rule^{9 note}

.

Ang.
Now does he feel
His secret murders sticking on his hands;
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
Those he commands, move only in command,
Nothing in love: now does he feel his title
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.

Ment.
Who then shall blame
His pester'd senses to recoil, and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself, for being there^{1 note}
?

Cath.
Well, march we on,
To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd:
Meet we the medecin^{2 note} of the sickly weal;

And with him pour we, in our country's purge,
Each drop of us.

Len.
Or so much as it needs,
To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds^{3 note}