I bear a charmed life, which must not yield Macd. Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou stili hast serv'd 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 keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope.-I'll not fight with thee. And live to be the show and gaze o' the time. 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, 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. 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, In the unshrinking station where he fought, 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 It hath no end. 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. Macd. 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, All. Hail, king of Scotland! [Flourish. Mal. We shall not spend a large expense of time, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE I.-Athens. A Hall in Timon's House. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others at Poet. Good day, sir. Pain. I am glad you are well. Poet. I have not seen you long: How goes the world? Ay, that's well known : Poet. Pain. I know them both; th' other's a jeweller. Jew. Nay, that's most fix'd. Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were, Mer. O, pray, let's see 't: for the Lord Timon, sir? Jew. If he will touch the estimate: But, for thatPoet. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.' Mer. 'Tis a good form. [Looking at the jewel. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you. Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord. Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me. From whence 'tis nourished: The fire i' the flint Each bound it chafes. What have you there? Pain. A picture, sir.-When comes your book forth? Let's see your piece. Pain. 'Tis a good piece. Poet. So 'tis : this comes off well and excellent. Poet. Admirable How this grace Speaks his own standing! what a mental power Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Poet. It tutors nature: artificial strife I'll say of it Lives in these touches, livelier than life. Pain. Enter certain Senators, and pass over. How this lord's follow'd! Poet. The senators of Athens :-Happy men ! Pain. Look, more! Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have, in this rough work, shap'd out a man Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug With amplest entertainment: My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice Pain. How shall I understand you? I'll unbolt to you You see how all conditions, how all minds, Subdues and properties to his love and tendance Pain. I saw them speak together. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill methinks, Poet. Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Pain. Ay, marry, what of these? Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of mood, Spurns down her late belov'd, all his dependants, Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top, Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot. Pain. A thousand moral paintings I can show, 'Tis common : That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune's To show lord Timon that mean eyes have seen Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, attended; the Servant of VENTIDIUS talking with him. Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you? Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt; His means most short, his creditors most strait : Your honourable letter he desires To those have shut him up; which failing to him Tim. Noble Ventidius! Well: |