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 lye,
'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, my Senses would have cool'd
To hear a Night-shriek, and my Fell of Hair
Would at a dismal Treatise rouze, and stir
As Life were in't. I have supt full with horrors,
Direness familiar to my slaughterous Thoughts
Cannot once start me. Wherefore was that cry?

Sey.
The Queen (my Lord) is dead.

Macb.
She should have dy'd hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last Syllable of Recorded time:
And all our yesterdays have lighted Fools
The way to study death. Out, out, brief Candle,
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 Ideot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing. Enter a Messenger.
Thou com'st to use thy Tongue: thy story quickly.

Mes.
My Gracious Lord,
I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do't.

Macb.
Well, say, Sir.

Mes.
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.

Mes.
Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so:
Within this three mile you may 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: If thy Speech be sooth,

I care not if thou do'st for me as much.
I pull in Resolution, and begin
To doubt the Equivocation of the Fiend,
That lies like truth. Fear not, 'till Birnam Wood
Do come to Dunsinane, and now a Wood
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out;
If this which he avouches do's appear,
There is no flying hence, nor tarrying here;
I 'gin to be a weary of the Sun,
And wish th' estate o' th' World were now undone.
Ring the alarum Bell, blow Wind, come wrack,
At least we'll die with Harness on our back. [Exeunt.

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