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 within, of Women.

Sey.
It is the cry of women, my good lord.

Macb.
I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been^{4 note}, my senses would have cool'd
To hear a night-shriek^{5 note}

Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir
As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors^{7 note}

Sey.
The queen, my lord, is dead.

Macb.
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word^{8 note}

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow^{9 note}
,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time^{1 note}

Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.— 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't.

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! [Striking him^{3 note}.

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,
Till famine cling thee^{4 note}

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^{4 note}

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^{5 note}

,
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^{6 note}