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 it stood;
As two spent Swimmers, that do cling together,
And choak their Art: The merciless Macdonnel
(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 is supply'd,
And Fortune on his damned Quarry smiling,
Shew'd like a Rebels Whore. But all's too weak;
For brave Macbeth, well he deserves that Name,
Disdaining Fortune, with his brandisht Steel,
Which smoak'd with bloody Execution,
Like Valours Minion, carv'd out his Passage,
'Till he fac'd the Slave;
Which never 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.
O valiant Cousin! worthy Gentleman!

Cap.
As whence the Sun gins his Reflection,
Shipwracking Storms and direful Thunders breaking;
So from that Spring, whence Comfort seem'd to come,
Discomfort swells: Mark, King of Scotland, mark;
No sooner Justice had, with Valour arm'd,
Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their Heels,
But the Norweyan Lord surveying Vantage,
With furbisht Arms and new Supplies of Men,
Began a fresh assault.

King.
Dismaid 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,
So they doubly redoubled Stroaks on 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.
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 terrible Numbers,
Assisted by that most disloyal Traitor,
The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal Conflict,
'Till that Bellona's Bridegroom, lapt in proof,
Confronted him with Self-comparisons,
Point against Point, rebellious Arm 'gainst Arm,
Curbing his lavish Spirit: And to conclude,
The Victory fell on us.

King.
Great Happiness.

Rosse.
That now Sweno, the Norway's King,
Craves Composition:
Nor would we deign him burial of his Men,
'Tis he disbursed, at St. Colmes-hill,
Ten thousand Dollars, to our general use.

King.
No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive
Our bosom Interest. Go, pronounce his present Death,
And with his former Title, greet Macbeth.

Rosse.
I'll see it done.

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

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