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.

Macb. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die

On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.

Macd.

Re-enter Macduff.

Turn, hell-hound, turn.

Macb. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back, my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already.

Macd.

I have no words,

My voice is in my sword; thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out! [They fight.
Macb.
Thou losest labour:
As easy may'st thou the intrenchant air!

With thy keen sword impress, 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.

Despair thy charm; And let the angel, whom thou still 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,

(1) The air, which cannot be cut. (2) Shuffle.

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.

I'll not yield,

Macb. 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.

Siw.

Had he his hurts before?

Rosse. Ay, on the front.

Siw.

Why then, God's soldier be he!

Had I as many sons as I have hairs,

I would not wish them to a fairer death:

He's worth more sorrow,

And so his knell is knoll'd.

Mal.

And that I'll spend for him.
Siw.
He's worth no more;
They say, he parted well, and paid his score:
So, God be with him!-Here comes newer comfort.
Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head on a pole.

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.

King of Scotland, hail! [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 kins

men,

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.

(1) The kingdom's wealth or ornament.

This play is deservedly celebrated for the propriety of its fiction, and solemnity, grandeur, and variety of its action; but it has no nice discriminations of character; the events are too great to admit the influence of particular dispositions, and the course of the action necessarily determines the conduct of the agents.

The danger of ambition is well described; and I know not whether it may not be said, in defence of some parts which now seem improbable, that in Shakspeare's time it was necessary to warn credulity against vain and illusive predictions.

The passions are directed to their true end. Lady Macbeth is merely detested; and though the courage of Macbeth preserves some esteem, yet every reader rejoices at his fall.

JOHNSON.

END OF VOL. III.