Macbeth

Malc. 'Tis his maine hope: For where there is aduantage to be giuen, Both more and lesse haue giuen him the Reuolt, And none serue with him, but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too Macd. Let our iust Censures Attend the true euent, and put we on Industrious Souldiership Sey. The time approaches, That will with due decision make vs know What we shall say we haue, and what we owe: Thoughts speculatiue, their vnsure hopes relate, But certaine issue, stroakes must arbitrate, Towards which, aduance the warre. Exeunt. marching Scena Quinta. Enter Macbeth, Seyton, & Souldiers, with Drum and Colours. Macb. Hang out our Banners on the outward walls, The Cry is still, they come: our Castles strength Will laugh a Siedge to scorne: Heere let them lye, Till Famine and the Ague eate them vp: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might haue met them darefull, beard to beard, And beate them backward home. What is that noyse? A Cry within of Women. Sey. It is the cry of women, my good Lord Macb. I haue almost forgot the taste of Feares: The time ha's beene, my sences would haue cool'd To heare a Night-shrieke, and my Fell of haire Would at a dismall Treatise rowze, and stirre As life were in't. I haue supt full with horrors, Direnesse familiar to my slaughterous thoughts Cannot once start me. Wherefore was that cry? Sey. The Queene (my Lord) is dead Macb. She should haue dy'de heereafter; There would haue beene a time for such a word: To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow, Creepes in this petty pace from day to day, To the last Syllable of Recorded time: And all our yesterdayes, haue lighted Fooles The way to dusty death. Out, out, breefe Candle, Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player, That struts and frets his houre vpon the Stage, And then is heard no more. It is a Tale Told by an Ideot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing. Enter a Messenger. Thou com'st to vse thy Tongue: thy Story quickly Mes. Gracious my Lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to doo't Macb. Well, say sir Mes. As I did stand my watch vpon the Hill I look'd toward Byrnane, and anon me thought The Wood began to moue Macb. Lyar, and Slaue Mes. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so: Within this three Mile may you see it comming. I say, a mouing Groue Macb. If thou speak'st false, Vpon the next Tree shall thou hang aliue Till Famine cling thee: If thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much. I pull in Resolution, and begin To doubt th' Equiuocation of the Fiend, That lies like truth. Feare not, till Byrnane Wood Do come to Dunsinane, and now a Wood Comes toward Dunsinane. Arme, Arme, and out, If this which he auouches, do's appeare, There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here. I 'ginne to be a-weary of the Sun, And wish th' estate o'th' world were now vndon. Ring the Alarum Bell, blow Winde, come wracke, At least wee'l dye with Harnesse on our backe. Exeunt. Scena Sexta. Drumme and Colours. Enter Malcolme, Seyward, Macduffe, and their Army, with Boughes. Mal. Now neere enough: Your leauy Skreenes throw downe, And shew like those you are: You (worthy Vnkle) Shall with my Cosin your right Noble Sonne Leade our first Battell. Worthy Macduffe, and wee Shall take vpon's what else remaines to do, According to our order Sey. Fare you well: Do we but finde the Tyrants power to night, Let vs be beaten, if we cannot fight Macd. Make all our Trumpets speak, giue the[m] all breath Those clamorous Harbingers of Blood, & Death. Exeunt. Alarums continued. Scena Septima. Enter Macbeth. Macb. They haue tied me to a stake, I cannot flye, But Beare-like I must fight the course. What's he That was not borne of Woman? Such a one Am I to feare, or none. Enter young Seyward. Y.Sey. What is thy name? Macb. Thou'lt be affraid to heare it Y.Sey. No: though thou call'st thy selfe a hoter name Then any is in hell Macb. My name's Macbeth Y.Sey. The diuell himselfe could not pronounce a Title More hatefull to mine eare Macb. No: nor more fearefull Y.Sey. Thou lyest abhorred Tyrant, with my Sword Ile proue the lye thou speak'st. Fight, and young Seyward slaine. Macb. Thou was't borne of woman; But Swords I smile at, Weapons laugh to scorne, Brandish'd by man that's of a Woman borne. Enter. Alarums. Enter Macduffe. Macd. That way the noise is: Tyrant shew thy face, If thou beest slaine, and with no stroake of mine, My Wife and Childrens Ghosts will haunt me still: I cannot strike at wretched Kernes, whose armes Are hyr'd to beare their Staues; either thou Macbeth, Or else my Sword with an vnbattered edge I sheath againe vndeeded. There thou should'st be, By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seemes bruited. Let me finde him Fortune, And more I begge not. Exit. Alarums.