Macbeth.
Why should I play the Roman fool, and die

On mine own sword?^{1 note}

whiles I see lives, the gashes
Do better upon them. Enter Macduff, L.

Macduff.
Turn, hell-hound, turn.

Macbeth.
Of all men else I have avoided thee:
But get thee back, my soul is too much charg'd
With blood of thine already.

Macduff.
I have no words,
My voice is in my sword; thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out! Alarums—they fight.

Macbeth.
Thou losest labour:
As easy mayst 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 not yield
To one of woman born.

Macduff.
Despair thy charm;
And let the angel, whom thou still hast serv'd,
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.

Macbeth.
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.

Macduff.
Then yield thee, coward,
And live to be the show and gaze o' the time.
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,
“Here may you see the tyrant.”

Macbeth.
I'll 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, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last: lay on, Macduff;
And damn'd be he that first cries, “Hold, enough.”^{2 note} [Alarms—Shouts—Fight—Macbeth is Slain. Enter Malcolm, Old Siward, Rosse, Lenox, Angus, Cathness, Menteth, and Soldiers, R. Malcolm is raised on a shield in C. Shouts. Flourish.(C)8Q0177 THE END.

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