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Ross. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker: Each minute teems a new one.

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MACD. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? Ross. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.

MACD. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes 't?

Ross. When I came hither to transport the tidings,

Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour
Of many worthy fellows that were out;
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot:
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.

MAL.

Be't their comfort

We are coming thither: gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men ;

An older and a better soldier none

That Christendom gives out.

Ross.

Would I could answer

This comfort with the like! But I have words

That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them.

MACD.

What concern they?

The general cause? or is it a fee-grief

Due to some single breast?

Ross.

No mind that's honest

But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone.

MACD.

If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

Ross. Let not your ears despise my tongue for

ever,

Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard.

MACD.

Hum! I guess at it.

Ross. Your castle is surprised; your wife and

babes

Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,
To add the death of you.

Merciful heaven!

MAL. What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break. MACD. My children too?

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MAL.

Be comforted:

Let's make us medicines of our great revenge,

To cure this deadly grief.

MACD. He has no children. All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?

What, all my pretty chickens and their dam

At one fell swoop?

MAL. Dispute it like a man.

MACD.

But I must also feel it as a man:

I shall do so;

I cannot but remember such things were,

That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on,

And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!
MAL. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let
grief

Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

MACD. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, Heaven forgive him too!

MAL. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above

Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you

may:

The night is long that never finds the day.

[Exeunt.

ACT THE FIFTH.

Dunsinane.

SCENE I.

Ante-room in the castle.

Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting

Gentlewoman.

DOCT. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?

GENT. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

DOCT. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

GENT. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCT. You may to me: and 'tis most meet you should.

GENT. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.

Enter LADY MACBETH, with a taper.

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DocT. How came she by that light?

GENT. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command.

DOCT. You see, her eyes are open.

GENT. Ay, but their sense is shut.

DocT. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

GENT. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

LADY M. Yet here's a spot.

DOCT. Hark! she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

LADY M. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-One: two: why, then 'tis time to do 't.-Hell is murky! -Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?-Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him.

DOCT. Do you mark that?

LADY M. The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?-What, will these hands ne'er be clean?—No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that you mar all with this starting.

DOCT. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

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