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The Gates of the Castle at Dunsinane.
Mach. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.
Macd. Turn, hell-hound, turn.
Macb. Of all men else I have avoided thee:
Macd. I have no words,
Macb. Thou losest labour:
Macd. Despair thy charm;
Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
Macd. Then yield thee, coward,
Macb. I will not yield,
And damn'd be him that first cries, " Hold! enough!"
Macb. "Tis done! the scene of life will quickly close. Ambition's vain delusive dreams are filed, And now I wake to darkness, guilt, and horror.—
I cannot rise:—I dare not ask for mercy
It is too late;—hell drags me down;—I sink,
Flourish of Trumpets and Drums—Shout, &c.
Enter Malcolm, Rosse, Lenox, Siward, GenTlemen, and Soldiers.
Macd. Hail, King! for so thou art: 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 of Trumpets and Drums.
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 kills
[Flourish of Trumpets and Drums.—Exeunt.