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And many unrough youths, that even now
Proteft their firft of manhood.
Ment. What does the tyrant?

Cath. Great Dunfinane he ftrongly fortifies;
Some fay, he's mad: others, that leffer hate him,
Do call it valiant fury: but for certain,

He cannot buckle his diftemper'd Cause
Within the belt of Rule.

Ang. Now do's he feel

His fecret murthers fticking on his hands;
Now minutely Revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
Thofe, he commands, move only in command,
Nothing in love: now does he feel his Title
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.

Ment. Who then fhall blame

His pefter'd fenfes to recoil, and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
It felf, for being there?

Cath. Well, march we on,

To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd:
Meet we the med'cine of the fickly Weal,

And with him pour we, in our Country's purge,
Each drop of us.

Len. Or fo much as it needs,

To dew the fovereign flower, and drown the weeds.
Make up our March towards Birnam.

SCENE, the Caftle of DUN SINA NE.

Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.

Mach. B
BRI

RING me no more Reports, let them fly all:

'Till Birnam-wood remove to Dunfinane,

I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? Spirits, that know
All mortal confequences, have pronounc'd it:

Fear not, Macbeth; no man, that's born of woman, • Shall e'er have power upon thee.

Thanes,

Then fly, falfe

And

And mingle with the English Epicures.
The mind I fway by, and the heart I bear,

Shall never fagg with doubt, nor shake with fear.

Enter a Servant.

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

Ser. There are ten thousand

Macb. Geefe, villain?

Ser. Soldiers, Sir.

Macb. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, Thou lilly-liver'd boy. What foldiers, patch? Death of thy foul! those linnen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What foldiers, whey-face? Ser. The English force, fo please you. Macb. Take thy face henceheart,

When I behold

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Seyton!

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I'm fick at

This push

Seyton, I fay! Will cheer me ever, or disease 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, Curfes not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton,

Enter Seyton.

Sey. What is your gracious pleasure ?

Macb. What news more?

Sey. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. Macb. I'll fight, 'till from my bones my flesh be hackt; Give me my armour.

Sey. 'Tis not needed yet.

Macb. I'll put it on.

Send out more horfes, skirre the country round;

Hang thofe, that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.

How do's your Patient, Doctor?

Doct. Not fo fick, my lord,

VO L. VI.

P

Αν

As fhe is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her Rest.

Macb. Cure her of that:

Canft thou not minifter to a mind difeas'd,
Pluck from the memory a rooted forrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with fome fweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanfe the ftuff'd bofom of that perilous ftuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?

Doct. Therein the Patient
Muft minifter unto himself.

Macb. Throw phyfick to the dogs, I'll none of it
Come, put my armour on; give me my staff.
Seyton, fend out- Doctor, the Thanes fly from me
Come, Sir, difpatch- If thou could'ft, Doctor, caft
The water of my Land, find her disease,

And purge it to a found and priftine health ;
I would applaud thee to the very Echo,
That should applaud again. Pull't off, I say
What rubarb, fenna, or what purgative drug,

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Would scour these English hence! hear it thou of them? Doct. Ay, my good lord; your royal Preparation Makes us hear fomething..

Macb. Bring it after me;

I will not be afraid of death and bane, 'Till Birnam-forest come to Dunfinane.

Doct. Were I from Dunfinane away, and clear,

Profit again fhould hardly draw me here.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to Birnam-Wood.

Enter Malcolm, Siward, Macduff, Siward's Son, Menteth, Cathness, Angus, and Soldiers marching.

NOUSINS, I hope, the days are near at

Mal. Chand,

That chambers will be fafe.

Ment. We doubt it nothing.

Siw. What wood is this before us?

Ment. The wood of Birnam.

Mal. Let every foldier hew him down a bough,

And

And bear't before him; thereby fhall we shadow
The numbers of our Hoft, and make discov'ry
Err in report of us.

Sold. It fhall be done.

Siw. We learn no other, but the confident tyrant
Keeps ftill in Dunfinane, and will endure
Our setting down before't.

Mal. 'Tis his main hope:

For where there is advantage to be given,
Both more and lefs have given him the Revolt ;
And none serve with him but constrained things,
Whose hearts are absent too.

Macd. Let our just cenfures

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

Siw. The time approaches,

That will with due decifion make us know
What we shall say we have, and what we owe:
Thoughts fpeculative their unfure hopes relate;
But certain iffue Strokes must arbitrate:
Towards which, advance the war. [Exeunt marching.

SCENE changes to the Castle of Dunfinane. Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers with drums and colours.

Macb. HANG out our banners on the outward

The Cry is ftill, they come
Will laugh a fiege to fcorn.

our Caftle's ftrength
Here let them lye,

'Till famine and the ague eat them up:

Were they not forc'd with those that fhould 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.
Macb. I have almoft forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my fenfes would have cool'd
To hear a night-fhriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a difmal treatise rouze and ftir,

As life were in't. I have fupt full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my flaught'rous thoughts,
Cannot once start me. Wherefore was that Cry?
Sey. The Queen, my Lord, is dead.

Macb. She fhould have dy'd hereafter;
There would have been a time for fuch a word.
To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last fyllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dufty death. Out, out, brief candle !
Life's but a walking fhadow, a poor Player,
That ftruts and frets his hour upon the Stage,
And then is heard no more! It is a Tale,
Told by an ideot, full of found and fury,
Signifying nothing!

Enter a Meffenger.

Thou com'ft to use thy tongue: thy ftory quickly.
Mef. My gracious lord,

I fhould report That which, I fay, I faw,
But know not how to do't.

Macb. Well, fay it, Sir.

Mef. As I did ftand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The Wood began to move.

Macb. Liar, and flave!

Mef. Let me endure

[Striking him.

your wrath, if't be not fo:

Within this three mile may you fee it coming;

I fay, a moving grove.

Macb. If thou speak'ft falfe,

Upon the next tree fhalt thou hang alive,

'Till famine cling thee: If thy fpeech be footh,

I care not, if thou doft for me as much.

I pull in Refolution, and begin

To doubt th' equivocation of the fiend,

That lies like truth. "Fear not, 'till Birnam-wood "Do come to Dunfinane,"

- and now a wood

Comes toward Dunfinane. Arm, arm, and out!
If this, which he avouches, does appear,

There

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