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And mingle with the English epicures:

The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sagg with doubt, nor shake with fear.

Enter a Sercant.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where got'st thou that goose look?

Ser. There is ten thousand——



Geese, villain?

Soldiers, sir.

Mac. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? Ser. The English force, so please you.

Mac. Take thy face hence.-Seyton!—I am sick at heart,

When I behold-Seyton, I say!-This push
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.
I have liv'd long enough: my way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf:
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare

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Sey. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was re


Mac. I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be


Give me my armour.


Mac. I'll put it on.

'Tis not needed yet.

Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.-Give me mine ar


How does your patient, doctor?


Not so sick, my lord,

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,

That keep her from her rest.

Cure her of that:

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?


Must minister to himself.

Therein the patient

Mac. Throw physick to the dogs, I'll none of


Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:—
Seyton, send out.-Doctor, the thanes fly from me :-
Come, sir, despatch:-If thou could'st, doctor, cast
The water of my land, find her disease,
And purge it to a sound and pristine health,
I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again.-Pull't off, I say.-

What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug,

Would scour these English hence?-Hearest thou of them?

Doct. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something.


Bring it after me.


I will not be afraid of death and bane,

Doct. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,

Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

Profit again should hardly draw me here.




Enter, with Drum and Colours, Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteth, Cathness, Angus, Lenox, Rosse, and Soldiers, marching.

Mal. Cousins, I hope, the days are near at hand, That chambers will be safe.


We doubt it nothing.

The wood of Birnam.

Siw. What wood is this before us?

Mal. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us.


It shall be done.

Siw. We learn no other, but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure

Our setting down before't.

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'Tis his main hope:

For where there is advantage to be given,

Both more and less have given him the revolt; And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too.


Let our just censures

The time approaches,

Attend the true event, and put we on
Industrious soldiership.


That will with due decision make us know
What we shall say we have, and what we owe.
Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate;
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate:

Towards which, advance the war.


[Exeunt, marching.



Enter, with drums and colours, Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.

Mac. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, They come: Our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie, Till famine, and the ague, eat them up: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. What is that noise? [A cry within, of women.

Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord.

Mac. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir

As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me.-Wherefore was that cry? Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead.

Mac. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.-

Enter a Messenger.

Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

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Mcs. As I did stand my watch upon the hill,

I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,

The wood began to move.


Liar, and slave!

[striking him.

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