Macbeth - Act 5 - Scene 8

SCENE VIII. Another part of the field.

    Enter MACBETH

MACBETH

    Why should I play the Roman fool, and die
    On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes
    Do better upon them.

    Enter MACDUFF

MACDUFF

    Turn, hell-hound, turn!

MACBETH

    Of all men else I have avoided thee:
    But get thee back; my soul is too much charged
    With blood of thine already.

MACDUFF

    I have no words:
    My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain
    Than terms can give thee out!

    They fight

MACBETH

    Thou losest labour:
    As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air
    With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed:
    Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;
    I bear a charmed life, which must not yield,
    To one of woman born.

MACDUFF

    Despair thy charm;
    And let the angel whom thou still hast served
    Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
    Untimely ripp'd.

MACBETH

    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 believed,
    That palter with us in a double sense;
    That keep the word of promise to our ear,
    And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee.

MACDUFF

    Then yield thee, coward,
    And live to be the show and gaze o' the time:
    We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
    Painted on a pole, and underwrit,
    'Here may you see the tyrant.'

MACBETH

    I will not yield,
    To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,
    And to be baited with the rabble's curse.
    Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,
    And thou opposed, being of no woman born,
    Yet I will try the last. Before my body
    I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,
    And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'

    Exeunt, fighting. Alarums

    Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, MALCOLM, SIWARD, ROSS, the other Thanes, and Soldiers

MALCOLM

    I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.

SIWARD

    Some must go off: and yet, by these I see,
    So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

MALCOLM

    Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

ROSS

    Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt:
    He only lived 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.

SIWARD

    Then he is dead?

ROSS

    Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow
    Must not be measured by his worth, for then
    It hath no end.

SIWARD

    Had he his hurts before?

ROSS

    Ay, on the front.

SIWARD

    Why then, God's soldier be he!
    Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
    I would not wish them to a fairer death:
    And so, his knell is knoll'd.

MALCOLM

    He's worth more sorrow,
    And that I'll spend for him.

SIWARD

    He's worth no more
    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

MACDUFF

    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,
    That speak my salutation in their minds;
    Whose voices I desire aloud with mine:
    Hail, King of Scotland!

ALL

    Hail, King of Scotland!

    Flourish

MALCOLM

    We shall not spend a large expense of time
    Before we reckon with your several loves,
    And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen,
    Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland
    In such an honour named. What's more to do,
    Which would be planted newly with the time,
    As calling home our exiled friends abroad
    That fled the snares of watchful tyranny;
    Producing forth the cruel ministers
    Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen,
    Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands
    Took off her life; this, and what needful else
    That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace,
    We will perform in measure, time and place:
    So, thanks to all at once and to each one,
    Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.

    Flourish. Exeunt