King.
What bloody man is that? he can report,
As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt
The newest state.

Mal.
This is the Serjeant,
Who like a good and hardy soldier fought
'Gainst my captivity. Hail, hail, brave friend!
Say to the King the knowledge of the broil,
As thou didst leave it.

Cap.
Doubtful long it stood:
As two spent swimmers that do cling together,
And choak their Art: the merciless Macdonel
(Worthy to be a Rebel; for to That
The multiplying villanies of nature
Do swarm upon him) from the western isles
Of Kernes and Gallow-glasses was supply'd;
And fortune, on his damned quarry smiling,
Shew'd like a rebel's whore. But all too weak:
For brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name)
Disdaining fortune, with his brandisht steel
Which smoak'd with bloody execution,
Like Valour's Minion carved out his passage,
'Till he had fac'd the slave;
Who ne'er shook hands nor bid farewel to him,
'Till he unseam'd him from the nave to th' chops,
And fix'd his head upon our battlements.

King.
Oh, valiant Cousin! worthy Gentleman!

Cap.
As whence the sun 'gins his reflection,
Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break;(1) ^note

So from that Spring, whence Comfort seem'd to come,(2) ^note

King.
Dismay'd not this
Our Captains, Macbeth and Banquo?

Cap.
Yes.
As sparrows, eagles; or the hare, the lion.
If I say sooth, I must report, they were
As cannons overcharg'd; with double cracks,(3) ^note

So they redoubled stroaks upon the foe:
Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,
Or memorize another Golgotha,
I cannot tell—
But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.—

King.
So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds:
They smack of honour both. Go, get him surgeons. Enter Rosse and Angus.
But who comes here?

Mal.
The worthy Thane of Rosse.

Len.
What haste looks through his eyes?
So should he look, that seems to speak things strange.

Rosse.
God save the King!

King.
Whence cam'st thou, worthy Thane?

Rosse.
From Fife, great King,
Where the Norweyan Banners flout the sky,
And fan our people cold.
Norway, himself with numbers terrible,(4) ^note

Assisted by that most disloyal traitor
The Thane of Cawdor, 'gan a dismal conflict;
'Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapt in proof,(5) ^note



Confronted him with self-comparisons,
Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm,

Curbing his lavish spirit. To conclude,
The victory fell on us.

King.
Great happiness!

Rosse.
Now Sweno, Norway's King, craves composition:
Nor would we deign him burial of his men,
'Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes-kill-isle
Ten thousand dollars, to our gen'ral use.

King.
No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive
Our bosom int'rest. Go, pronounce his death;
And with his former Title greet Macbeth.

Rosse.
I'll see it done.

King.
What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt.

Previous section

Next section