Why should I play the Roman fool, and die

On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes

Do better upon them.

Turn, hell-hound, turn!

Of all men else I have avoided thee:

But get thee back; my soul is too much charg’d

With blood of thine already.

I have no words;

My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain

Than terms can give thee out!

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.

Despair thy charm;

And let the angel whom thou still hast serv’d

Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb

Untimely ripp’d.

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 believ’d,

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.

Then yield thee, coward,

And live to be the show and gaze o’ th’ time.

We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,

Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,

“Here may you see the tyrant.”

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 oppos’d, 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!”

I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d.

Some must go off; and yet, by these I see,

So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt:

He only liv’d 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.

Then he is dead?

Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow

Must not be measur’d by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

Had he his hurts before?

Ay, on the front.

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.

He’s worth more sorrow,

And that I’ll spend for him.

He’s worth no more.

They say he parted well and paid his score:

And so, God be with him!—Here comes newer comfort.

Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands

Th’ 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!

Hail, King of Scotland!

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 nam’d. What’s more to do,

Which would be planted newly with the time,—

As calling home our exil’d 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.