Welcome to PhiloLogic  
   home |  the ARTFL project |  download |  documentation |  sample databases |   
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.

Previous section

Next section

SCENE VI. Before Dunsinane. Enter Malcolm, Siward, Macduff, and their Army with Boughs.

Mal.
Now, near enough: your leavy screens throw down,
And shew like those you are. You (worthy uncle)
Shall with my Cousin, your right-noble son,
Lead our first battle. Brave Macduff and we
Shall take upon's what else remains to do,
According to our order.

Siw.
Fare you well:
Do We but find the Tyrant's Power to night,
Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight.

Macd.
Make all our trumpets speak, give them all breath,
Those clam'rous harbingers of blood and death.
[Exe. [Alarums continued.

-- 423 --

Enter Macbeth.

Macb.
They've ty'd me to a stake, I cannot fly,
But, bear-like, I must fight the course. What's he,
That was not born of woman? such a one
Am I to fear, or none.
Enter young Siward.

Yo. Siw.
What is thy name?

Macb.
Thou'lt be afraid to hear it.

Yo. Siw .
No: though thou call'st thy self a hotter name,
Than any is in hell.

Macb.
My name's Macbeth.

Yo. Siw.
The devil himself could not pronounce a title
More hateful to mine ear.

Macb.
No, nor more fearful.

Yo. Siw.
Thou liest, abhorred Tyrant; with my sword
I'll prove the lie thou speak'st.
[Fight, and young Siward's slain.

Macb.
Thou wast born of woman;—
But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,
Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born.
[Exit. Alarums. Enter Macduff.

Macd.
That way the noise is: Tyrant, shew thy face;
If thou be'st slain, and with no stroke of mine,
My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still.
I cannot strike at wretched Kernes, whose arms
Are hir'd to bear their staves: Or thou, Macbeth,
Or else my sword with an unbatter'd edge
I sheath again undeeded. There thou should'st be—
By this great clatter, one of greatest note
Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune!
And more I beg not.
[Exit Alarum.

-- 424 --

Enter Malcolm and Siward.

Siw.
This way, my lord, the Castle's gently render'd:
The tyrant's people on both sides do fight;
The noble Thanes do bravely in the war;
The day almost itself professes yours,
And little is to do.

Mal.
We've met with foes,
That strike beside us.

Siw.
Enter, Sir, the Castle.
[Exeunt. Alarum.
Previous section

Next section


Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
Powered by PhiloLogic