ACT V SCENE VIII | Another part of the field. | |
[Enter MACBETH] |
MACBETH | Why should I play the Roman fool, and die |
| On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes |
| Do better upon them. |
[Enter MACDUFF] |
MACDUFF | Turn, hell-hound, turn! |
MACBETH | Of all men else I have avoided thee: |
| But get thee back; my soul is too much charged |
| With blood of thine already. |
MACDUFF | I have no words: |
| My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain |
| Than terms can give thee out! |
[They fight] |
MACBETH | Thou losest labour: |
| As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air |
| With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed: | 10 |
| Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; |
| I bear a charmed life, which must not yield, |
| To one of woman born. |
MACDUFF | Despair thy charm; |
| And let the angel whom thou still hast served |
| Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb |
| Untimely ripp'd. |
MACBETH | 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 believed,
|
| That palter with us in a double sense; | 20 |
| That keep the word of promise to our ear, |
| And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee. |
MACDUFF | 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 on a pole, and underwrit, |
| 'Here may you see the tyrant.' |
MACBETH | I will not yield, |
| 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, | 30 |
| And thou opposed, 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. Alarums] |
[Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours,
MALCOLM, SIWARD, ROSS, the other Thanes, and Soldiers ] |
MALCOLM | I would the friends we miss were safe arrived. |
SIWARD | Some must go off: and yet, by these I see, |
| So great a day as this is cheaply bought. |
MALCOLM | Macduff is missing, and your noble son. |
ROSS | Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt: |
| He only lived but till he was a man; | 40 |
| The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd |
| In the unshrinking station where he fought, |
| But like a man he died. |
SIWARD | Then he is dead? |
ROSS | Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow |
| Must not be measured by his worth, for then |
| It hath no end. |
SIWARD | Had he his hurts before? |
ROSS | Ay, on the front. |
SIWARD | 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: |
| And so, his knell is knoll'd. |
MALCOLM | He's worth more sorrow, | 50 |
| And that I'll spend for him. |
SIWARD | He's worth no more |
| They say he parted well, and paid his score: |
| And so, God be with him! Here comes newer comfort. |
[Re-enter MACDUFF, with MACBETH's head] |
MACDUFF | 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 | Hail, King of Scotland! |
[Flourish] |
MALCOLM | We shall not spend a large expense of time | 60 |
| Before we reckon with your several loves, |
| And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, |
| Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland |
| In such an honour named. What's more to do, |
| Which would be planted newly with the time, |
| As calling home our exiled 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 | 70 |
| 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] |