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Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
S CE N E II.
THE English Power is near, led on by Malcolm,
Ang. Near Birnam-wood
Cath. Who knows, if Donalbain be with his brother?
Len. For certain, Sir, he is not: I've a file
Ment. What does the tyrant?
Cath. Great Dunsinane he Itrongly fortifies ;
Ang. Now do's he feel
Ment. Who then shall balme
Itself, for being there?
Cath. Well, march we on,
Len. Or so much as it needs,
our March towards Birnam.
S CE N E III.
The Castle of DUNSINAN E. Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants. Macb. BRING me to no more Reports, let them
fly all : 'Till Birnam-wood remove to Dunsnane, I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcoln ? Was he not born of woman? Spirits, that know All mortal consequences, have pronounc'd it: Fear not, Macbeth ; no man, that's born of woman, Shall e'er have power upon thee.--Then fly, falfe Thanes, And mingle with the English Epicures. The mind I fway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt, nor shake with fear.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. There are ten thousand--
Macb. 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. [heart,
Macb. Take thy face hence-Seyton ! - I'm sick at When I behold -Seyton, I say !--This push
Will cheer me ever, or disease me now.
Macb. I'll fight, 'till from my bones my flesh be Give me my armour.
[hack't; Sey. 'Tis not needed yet. Macb. I'll
Do&t. Not so fick, my lord,
Macb. Cure her of that :
Doct. Therein the Patient
Macb. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it Come, put my armour on; give me my staff. Seyton, send out-Doctor, the Thanes fly from me Come, Sir, dispatch--If thou could'ft, 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,
Doc. Ay, my good lord; your royal Preparation Makes us hear something.
Macb. Bring it after me; I will not be afraid of death and bane, 'Till Birnam-forest come to Dunsinane.
Do&t. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. (Exeunt.
S CE N E IV.
Changes to Birnam-Wood. Enter Malcolm, Siward, Macduff, Siward's Son,
Menteih; Cathness, Angus, and Soldiers marching. Mal. OUSINS; I hope the days are near at
[hand Ment. We doubt it nothing. Siw. What wood is this before us. Ment. The wood of Birnam.
Mal. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our Hofts, and make discov'ry Err in report of us.
Sold. It shall be done.'
Siw. We learn no other, but the confin'd tyrant Keeps fill in Dunsinane, and will endure Our fitting down before't.
Mal. 'Tis his main hope :
Macd. Let our just censures
Siw. The time approaches, 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.
Changes to the Casle of Dunsinane. Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers with drums and
colours. Macb. HANG Out our banners on the outward
walls The Cry is still, they come : our Cafle's strength Will laugh a fiege io 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.
Mach. I have almost forgot the taste of fears : The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-hriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouze and stir, As life were in't. I have supt 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 thould have dy'd 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 fyllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusky death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking thadow, a poor Player,