« AnteriorContinuar »
Mac. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.
Turn, hell-hound, turn.
Mac. 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. Mac. 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.
Mac. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
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,
I'll not yield,
Mac. 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
Then he is dead?
Rosse. Ay, and brought off the field: your cause
Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then
Had he his hurts before?
Rosse. Ay, on the front.
Why then, God's soldier be he!
Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
He's worth no more;
Siw. They say, he parted well, and paid his score: So, God be with him!-Here comes newer com
He's worth more sorrow,
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:
King of Scotland, hail'
[Flourish. Mal. We shall not spend a large expence 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;