Siward.
Siw.
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 professes itself yours,
And little is to do.
Mal.
We've met with foes
That strike beside us.
Siw.
Enter, sir, the castle.
[Exeunt. Alarum.
Enter Macbeth.
Macb,
Why should I play the Roman fool, and die
On mine own sword? whilst I see lives, the gashes
Do better upon them.
-- 68 --
To him enter Macduff.
Macd.
Turn, hell-hound, turn.
Macb.
Of all men else I have avoided thee:
But get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd
With blood of thine already.
Macd.
I've no words:
My voice is in my sword! thou bloodier villain,
Than terms can give thee out.
[Fight. Alarum.
Macb.
Thou losest labour;
As easy may'st 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 nor yield
To one of woman born.
Macd.
Despair thy charm!
And let the angel, whom thou still hath serv'd,
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.† note
Macb.
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.
Macd.
Then yield thee, coward,
And live to be the shew, and gaze o' th' time;
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and under writ,
“Here may you see the tyrant.”
Macb.
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, be of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last. Lay on, Macduff;
And damn'd be he that first cries, hold, enough.
[They fight.
-- 69 --
Macd.
This for my royal master Duncan;
This for my bosom friend, my wife; and this for
The pledges of her love and mine, my children.
[Macbeth falls.
Sure there are remains to conquer—I'll
As a trophy bear away his sword, to
Witness my revenge.
[Exit Macduff.
Macb.
'Tis done! the scene of life will quickly close.
Ambition's vain, delusive dreams are fled,
And now I wake to darkness, guilt and horror;
I cannot bear it! let me shake it off—
'I wo' not be; my soul is clogg'd with blood—
I cannot rise! I dare not ask for mercy—
It is too late, hell drags me down; I sink,
I sink—Oh!—my soul is lost for ever!
Oh!
[Dies.* note
Retreat and flourish. Enter Malcolm, Siward, Rosse, Thanes and Soldiers.
Mal.
I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd.
Siw.
Some must go off: and yet by these I see
So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
Mal.
Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
Rosse.
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 dy'd.
-- 70 --
Siw.
Then is he dead?
Rosse.
Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow
Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then
It hath no end.
Siw.
Had he his hurts before?
Rosse.
Ay, on the front.
Siw.
Why then, Heav'n'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.
Mal.
He's worth more sorrow,
And that I'll spend for him.
Siw.
He's worth no more:
Here comes newer comfort.
Enter Macduff.
Macd.
Hail, king! for so thou art. The time is free—
The tyrant's dead; and though I should not boast
That one whom guilt might easily weigh down,
Fell by my hand, yet I present you with his sword,
To shew that Heav'n appointed me to take revenge,
For you, and all that suffer'd by his cruel power,
I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's peers,
That speak my salutation in their minds
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine
Hail, king of Scotland!
[A flourish.
All.
Hail, king of Scotland!
[Flourish.
Mal.
We shall not spend a large expence of time,
Before we reckon with your sev'ral loves,
And make us even with you. 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
-- 71 --
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 Heav'n,
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.† note
