Act V. Scene
Scene VII. The Same. Another Part
of the Plain.
Alarums. Enter MACBETH.
Macb. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot
But bear-like I must fight the course. What's he
That was not born of woman? Such a one
Am I to fear, or none.
Enter Young SIWARD.
Young Siw. What is thy name?
Macb. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it.
Young Siw. No; though thou call'st thyself
a hotter name
Than any is in hell.
Macb. My name's Macbeth.
Young Siw. The devil himself could not pro-
nounce a title
More hateful to mine ear.
Macb. No, nor more fearful.
Young Siw. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant;
my swordI'll prove the lie thou speak'st.
[They fight and Young SIWARD is slain.
Macb. Thou wast born of woman:
But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,
Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. [Exit.
Alarums. Enter MACDUFF.
Macd. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show
If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine,
My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still.
I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms
Are hir'd to bear their staves: either thou,
Or else my sword with an unbatter'd edge
I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst
By this great clatter, one of greatest note
Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune!
And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarums.
Enter MALCOLM and Old SIWARD.
Siw. This way, my lord; the castle's gently
The tyrant's people on both sides do fight;
The noble thanes do bravely in the war;
The dav almost Itself professes yours,
And little is to do.
Mal. We have met with foes
That strike beside us.
Siw. Enter, sir, the castle.
Macb. Why should I play the Roman fool,
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:
But get thee bach, 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 mayst 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
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,
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 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,
And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last: before my body
I throw my war-like 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, Ross, Thanes,
Mal. I would the friends we miss were safe
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.
Ross. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's
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?
Ross. 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?
Ross. Ay, on the front.
Siw. Why then. God's soldier be be!
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.
Mal. He's worth more sorrow,
And that I'll spend for him.
Siw. He's worth no more;
They say, he parted well, and paid his score:
And so, God be with him! Here comes newer
Re-enter MACDUFF, with MACBETH'S head.
Macd. Hail, king! for so thou art. Behold,
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!
Mal. We shall not spend a large expense of
Before we reckon with your several loves,
And make us even with you. My thanes and
Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland
In such an honour nam'd. What's more to
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 too
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.