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The way to dufty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking fhadow, a poor player,
That ftruts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more! it is a tale,
Told, by an ideot, full of found and fury,
Signifying nothing!

Enter a Meffenger.

'Thou com'ft to use thy tongue: thy story quickly.
Mef. My gracious Lord,

I fhould report that which, I fay, I faw,
But know not how to do't.

Macb. Well, fay it, Sir.

Mej. As I did ftand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anoa, methought, The wood began to move.

Mach. Liar, and slave!

[Striking him. Mef. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not fo: Within this three mile may you fee it coming; I fay, a moving grove.

Macb. If thou fpeak'ft falfe,

Upon the next tree fhalt thou hang alive,
'Till famine cling thee: If thy fpeech be footh,

I care not if thou doft for me as much.

I pull in refolution, and begin

To doubt th' equivocation of the fiend,

That lies like truth. "Fear not, 'till Birnam-wood "Do come to Dunfinane,"—and now a wood

Comes toward Dunfinane. Arm, arm, and out!
If this, which he avouches, does appear,
There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here,
I 'gin to be a weary of the fun; (46)

And wish, the state o' th' world were now undone.

Here dyes the dusky torch of Mortimer.
And when the dusky fky began to rob, t.
Untimely fmother'd in their dusky graves.

(46) I'gin to be a weary of the fun;

Ibid.

2 Henry VI,

-R.cb. III.

And wife, &c.] Macbeth feems here exactly in the circumftance of Dido in Virgil. He knows his fate; and his misfortunes fit fo heavy upon him, that he is weary of being longer in the world. Tum vero infælix fatis exterrita Dido

Mortem orat; tædet cœli convexa tueri,

Æneid. IV,

Ring the alarum-bell; blow, wind! come, wrack! At least, we'll die with harness on our back. [Exeunt,

SCENE before Dunsinane.

Enter Malcolm, Siward, Macduff, and their Army with

Mal, Now,

Boughs.

TOW, near enough: your leavy screens throw
down,

And fhew like those you are. You (worthy uncle)
Shall with my coufin, your right-noble fon,

Lead our firft 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 trumpetsfpeak,give them all breath, Thofe clam'rous harbingers of blood and death. [Ex. [Alarums continued,

Enter Macbeth,

Mach. They've ty'd me to a stake, I cannot fly, But, bear-like, I must fight the courfe. What's he, That was not born of woman? fuch 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'it thy felf 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

Mach. No, nor more fearful.

Y. Siw. Thou lieft, abhorred tyrant; with my fword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st,

[Fight, and young Siward's flain.

Macb

Macb. Thou waft born of woman;

But fwords I fmile at, weapons laugh to fcorn,
Brandifh'd by man that's of a woman born.

Alarums. Enter Macduff.

[Exit.

Macd. That way the noife is: tyrant, fhew thy face;
If thou be'ft flain, and with no ftroke of mine,
My wife and children's ghofts will haunt me ftill.
I cannot strike at wretched Kernes, whofe arms
Are hir'd to bear their staves: Or thou, Macbeth,
Or else my sword with an unbatter'd edge

I fheath again undeeded. There thou should't be→
By this great clatter, one of greatest note
Let me find him, fortune!

Seems bruited.

And more I beg not.

Enter Malcolm and Siward.

[Exit. Alarum.

Siw. This way, my Lord, the caftle's gently render'd: The tyrant's people on both fides do fight;

The noble Thanes do bravely in the war;

The day almoft itself profeffes yours,

And little is to do.

Mal: We've met with foes,

That strike befide us.

Siw. Enter, Sir, the caftle.

Enter Macbeth.

[Exeunt. Alarum.

Mach. Why fhould I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own fword? whilft I fee lives, the gathes Do better upon them.

To him, enter Macduff.

Macd. Turn, hell-hoand, turn.

Macb. Of all men elfe I have avoided thee:

But get thee back, my foul is too much charg'd

With blood of thine already.

Macd. I've no words;

My voice is in my fword! thou bloodier villain,

Than terms can give thee out.

Q3

[Fight. Alarum.

Mach.

Mach. Thou lofeft labour;

As cafy may't thou the intrenchant air
With thy keen fword imprefs, 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.

Macd. Defpair thy charm!

And let the angel, whom thou ftill haft ferv'd,
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.

fo!

Macb. Accurfed be that tongue, that tells me
For it hath cow'd my better part of man:
And be thefe jugling fiends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promife to our ear,
And break it to our hope! I'll not fight with thee,
Macd. Then yield thee, coward.

And live to be the fhew, and gaze o' th' time.
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and under-writ,

Here may you fee the tyrant.

Mach. I will not yield

To kifs the ground before young Malcolm's feet:
And to be baited with the rabble's curfe.
Though Birnam-wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou, oppos'd, be of no woman born,
Yet I will try the laft. Before my body
I throw my warlike fhield. Lay on, Macduff;
And damn'd be he, that firft cries, hold, enough.
[Exeunt fighting. Alarums

Retreat and flourish. Enter with drum and colours, Malcolm, Siward, Roffe, Thanes, and Soldiers.

off:

Mal. I would, the friends, we mifs, were fafe arriv'd. Siw. Some muft go and yet by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought. Mal. Macduff is miffing, and your noble fon. Roffe. Your fon, my Lord, has paid a foldier's debt; He only liv'd but till he was a man,

The

The which no fooner had his prow'fs confirm'd, (47) In the unfhrinking ftation where he fought,

But like a man he dy❜d.

Sir. Then is he dead?

Roffe. Ay, and brought off the field: your caufe of forrow! Muft not be measur'd by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

Sir. Had he his hurts before?
Roffe. Ay, on the front.

Siw. Why then, God's foldier be he!
Had I as many fons as I have hairs,

I would not wish them to a fairer death:
And fo his knell is knoll'd.

Mal. He's worth more forrow,

And that I'll spend for him.

Siw. He's worth no more;

They fay, he parted well, and paid his fcore.
So, God be with him!-Here comes newer comfort.
Enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.

. Macd. Hail, King! for fo thou art. Behold, where stands
Th' ufurper's curfed head; the time is free:
I fee thee compaft with thy kingdom's Peers,
That fpeak my falutation in their minds:
Whofe voices I defire aloud with mine.
Hail, King of Scotland!

All. Hail, King of Scotland!

[Flourish.

Mal. We fhall not spend a large expence of time, Before we reckon with your fev'ral loves,

And make us even with you.

Thanes and kinsmen,

Henceforth be Earls, the firft that ever Scotland
In fuch an honour nam'd. What's more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time,

(47) The which no fooner bad bis prowess confirm'd, In the unfhrinking ftation where he fought,

But like a man, be dy'd.] The refolution, with which young Siward is defcrib'd to have dy'd, feems very much a copy of Cataline and his defperate affociates behaviour, in a much worfe caufe. Nam fire, quem quifque vivus pugnando locum ceperat, eum amiffa anima compose tegebat.

Saluft.

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