I bear a charmed life, which must not yield
To one of woman born.

Macd.

Despair thy charm;

And let the angel whom thou stili hast serv'd
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.

Macb.

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.
Macd. 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.'

Macb.

I will 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: Before my body

I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff;

And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough.'

[Exeunt, fighting.

Retreat. Flourish. Re-enter, with drum and colours, MALCOLM, old SIWARD, ROSSE, LENOX, ANGUS, CATHNESS, MENTETH, and Soldiers.

Mal. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd.
Siw. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see,

So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Mal. Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

Rosse. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt:

He only liv'd but till he was a man ;

The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd,

In the unshrinking station where he fought,

But like a man he died.

Siw. Then he is dead?

Rosse. Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

They say he parted well, and paid his score:

And so, God be with him!--Here comes newer comfort.

Re-enter MACDUFF, with MACBETH'S head.

Macd. Hail, king! for so thou art : Behold, where stands The usurper's cursed head: the time is free :

I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl,
That speak my salutation in their minds;
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,-
Hail, king of Scotland!

All.

Hail, king of Scotland! [Flourish.

Mal. We shall not spend a large expense of time,
Before we reckon with your several loves,

And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen,
Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland
In such an honour nam'd. What's more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time,-
As calling home our exil'd friends abroad
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny;
Producing forth the cruel ministers
Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,
Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands
Took off her life;-this, and what needful else
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace,
We will perform in measure, time, and place:
So thanks to all at once, and to each one,
Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

SCENE I.-Athens. A Hall in Timon's House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others at
several doors.

Poet. Good day, sir.

Pain.

I am glad you are well.

Poet. I have not seen you long: How goes the world?
Pain. It wears, sir, as it grows.

Ay, that's well known :

Poet.
But what particular rarity? what strange,
Which manifold record not matches? See,
Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd to attend. I know the merchant.

Pain. I know them both; th' other's a jeweller.
Mer. O, 'tis a worthy lord!

Jew.

Nay, that's most fix'd.

Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were,
To an untirable and continuate goodness:

Mer. O, pray, let's see 't: for the Lord Timon, sir? Jew. If he will touch the estimate: But, for thatPoet. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse

Which aptly sings the good.'

Mer. 'Tis a good form.

[Looking at the jewel.

Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you.

Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord.

Poet.

A thing slipp'd idly from me.
Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes

From whence 'tis nourished: The fire i' the flint
Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame
Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies

Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

Pain. A picture, sir.-When comes your book forth?
Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.

Let's see your piece.

Pain.

'Tis a good piece.

Poet. So 'tis : this comes off well and excellent.
Pain. Indifferent.

Poet.

Admirable How this grace

Speaks his own standing! what a mental power
This eye shoots forth! how big imagination
Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture
One might interpret.

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life.
Here is a touch: Is't good?

Poet.

It tutors nature: artificial strife

I'll say of it

Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

Pain.

Enter certain Senators, and pass over.

How this lord's follow'd!

Poet. The senators of Athens :-Happy men !

Pain. Look, more!

Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.

I have, in this rough work, shap'd out a man

Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug

With amplest entertainment: My free drift

Halts not particularly, but moves itself

In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold;
But flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind.

Pain. How shall I understand you?
Poet.

I'll unbolt to you

You see how all conditions, how all minds,
(As well of glib and slippery creatures, as
Of grave and austere quality,) tender down
Their services to lord Timon: his large fortune,
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,

Subdues and properties to his love and tendance
All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to abhor himself: even he drops down
The knee before him, and returns in peace
Most rich in Timon's nod.

Pain.

I saw them speak together.

Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill,
Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd: The base o' the mount
Is rank'd with all deserts, all kinds of natures,
That labour on the bosom of this sphere
To propagate their states: amongst them all,
Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd,
One do I personate of lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals.

Pain.

'Tis conceiv'd to scope.

This throne, this Fortune, and this hill methinks,
With one man beckon'd from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount
To climb his happiness, would be well express'd
In our condition.

Poet.
Nay, sir, but hear me on:
All those which were his fellows but of late,
(Some better than his value,) on the moment
Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance,
Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,

Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him
Drink the free air.

Pain.

Ay, marry, what of these? Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of mood, Spurns down her late belov'd, all his dependants, Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top, Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot. Pain.

A thousand moral paintings I can show,

'Tis common :

That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune's
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well,

To show lord Timon that mean eyes have seen
The foot above the head.

Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, attended; the Servant of VENTIDIUS talking with him.

Tim.

Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt; His means most short, his creditors most strait :

Your honourable letter he desires

To those have shut him up; which failing to him
Periods his comfort.

Tim.

Noble Ventidius! Well: