Macb.
Bring me no more reports; 'tis written “No man
Shall tackle Macbeth that is born of woman!”
Hang out our banners from the outward walls,
The cry is still, “They come!” Look out for squalls;
I've a suspicion that there'll be a row. Enter Messenger, R.
Yon lily-livered milk-sop spoon—how now?

Mess.
My lord, the English are in sight! You must
Call out your army—'neath a cloud of dust
They are coming down.

Macb.
Aye, and if I'm not wrong,
They'll come down handsome with the dust ere long,
To be well out of this— Enter Second Messenger, R.
At once declare
Your news, and don't stand like an idiot there!

Mess.
As I, my lord, kept guard, from Birnam tract
The wood seemed moving.

Macb. (punches his head)
Liar!

Mess.
It's a fact!
A funny sight, to see a grove go roving!

Macb.
Funny? it was a precious sight too moving!

Mess.
Beneath the trees they crouching came, like thieves;
They made their bows, and then they took their leaves.
They're coming down—we know not how to turn 'em.

Macb.
Curse Birnam Wood!—would any one would burn 'em!
Go, ask them if their mother knows they're out!
A ball or two will send them to the rout!
I vote we show them, when we do begin,
We're not sewn up, although we are hemmed in!
Give blows for blows, and stick to them like wax;
At least, we'll die with harness on our backs!

SONG.—Air—“Follow, follow o'er the Mountain.”
Follow, follow—if they're mounting
  To our breaches, do you see?
Though for taste there's no accounting,
  I would not in their shoes be!
Follow, follow—nothing doubting—
  And success I guarantee,
Though I've no more time for spouting
  Till redeemed my pledge shall be! Chorus—repeat, and exeunt L.

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