What bloody man is that? He can report,

As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt

The newest state.

This is the sergeant

Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought

’Gainst my captivity.—Hail, brave friend!

Say to the King the knowledge of the broil

As thou didst leave it.

Doubtful it stood;

As two spent swimmers that do cling together

And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald

(Worthy to be a rebel, for to that

The multiplying villainies of nature

Do swarm upon him) from the Western Isles

Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied;

And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling,

Show’d like a rebel’s whore. But all’s too weak;

For brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name),

Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish’d steel,

Which smok’d with bloody execution,

Like Valour’s minion, carv’d out his passage,

Till he fac’d the slave;

Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,

Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chops,

And fix’d his head upon our battlements.

O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!

As whence the sun ’gins his reflection

Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break,

So from that spring, whence comfort seem’d to come

Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark:

No sooner justice had, with valour arm’d,

Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their heels,

But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage,

With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men,

Began a fresh assault.

Dismay’d not this

Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?

Yes;

As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.

If I say sooth, I must report they were

As cannons overcharg’d with double cracks;

So they

Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe:

Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,

Or memorize another Golgotha,

I cannot tell—

But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds:

They smack of honour both.—Go, get him surgeons.

Who comes here?

The worthy Thane of Ross.

What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look

That seems to speak things strange.

God save the King!

Whence cam’st thou, worthy thane?

From Fife, great King,

Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky

And fan our people cold.

Norway himself, with terrible numbers,

Assisted by that most disloyal traitor,

The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict;

Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof,

Confronted him with self-comparisons,

Point against point, rebellious arm ’gainst arm,

Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude,

The victory fell on us.

Great happiness!

That now

Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition;

Nor would we deign him burial of his men

Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s Inch

Ten thousand dollars to our general use.

No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive

Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death,

And with his former title greet Macbeth.

I’ll see it done.

What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.