I sheathe again undeeded. There thou should'st bes By this great clatter, one of greatest note And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarum. Enter MALCOLM and old SIWARD. Siw. This way, my lord; -the castle's gently ren der'd: The tyrant's people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war; The day almost itself professes yours, 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. 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. Mach. Thou losest labour : As easy may'st thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed : I bear a charmed life 65, which must not yield Macd. Despair thy charm; Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, 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'll not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, [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 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 Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death : And so his knell is knoll'd 66. Mal. He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him. 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 : Hail, king of Scotland ! King of Scotland, hail ! [Flourish. Mal. We shall not spend a large expence of time, Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen; [Flourish. Exeunt. |