 I have two knights watch with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? Since His Majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed, yet all this while in a most fast sleep. A great perturbation in nature to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching. In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what at any time have you heard her say? That, sir, which I will not report after her. You may to me, and it is most meeth you should. Neither to you nor anyone, having no witness to confirm my speech. Enter, Lady Macbeth, with a taper. Lo, you, here she comes. This is her very guise, and upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her, stand close. How came she by that light? Why, it stood by her. She has light by her continually. Tis her command. You see, her eyes are open. Aye, but their sense is shut. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continuum this a quarter of an hour. Yet here's a spot. Hark, she speaks. I will sit down what comes from her to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. Out, damned spot. Out, I say. One, two. Why, then, tis time to do it. Hell is murky. Fi, my lord, fi, a soldier and a feared, what need we fear who knows it when none can call our power to account? Yet, who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Do you mark that? The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is she now? What will these hands ne'er be clean? No more of that, my lord. No more of that. You mar all with this starting. Go to, go to. You have known what you should not. She has spoke what she should not. I am sure of that. Heaven knows what she has known. Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. What a sigh is there. The heart is sorely charged. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. Well, well, well. Pray God it be, sir. This disease is beyond my practice. Yet I have known those who have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. Wash your hands. Put on your nightgown. Look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried. He cannot come out on his grave. Even so? Too bad. Too bad. There's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone. Too bad. Too bad. Too bad. Exit. Will she go now to bed? Directly. Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles. Infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she, the divine, than the physician. God, God, forgive us all. Look after her. Remove from her the means of all annoyance and still keep eyes upon her. So, good night, my mind she has mated and amazed my sight. I think but dare not speak. Good night, good doctor. Exit. Act five, scene two. The country near Dunzenane. Drum and colors. Enter mentees, cathness, agnes, Lennox and soldiers. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, his uncle Seward, and the good Mepdoth. Revengers burn in them, for their deer causes wood to the bleeding and grim alarm excite the mortified man. Near Burnham Wood. Shall we well meet them? That way are they coming? Who knows if Donald Bain be with his brother? For certain, sir. He is not. I have a file of all the gentry. There is a Seward's son and many other feuds that even now protest their fuss of manhood. What does the tyrant? Great Dunzenane, he strongly fortifies. Some say he's mad. Others that letter hate him do call it valiant fury. But for certain, he cannot buckle his distempered cause within the belt of rule. Now does he feel his secret murder sticking on his hands. Now minutely revolts up braid his faith breach. Those he commands move only in command. Nothing in love. Now does he feel his title hang loose about him like a giant's robe upon a dwarfish thief. Who then shall blame his pestered senses to recoil and start, when all that is within him does condemn itself for being there? Well, march we on, to give obedience where it is truly owed. Meet we the medicine of a sickly wheel, and with him pour we in our country's purge, each drop of us. All so much as it needs, to do the sovereign flower and drown the weeds, make we our match towards Birnam. Exceint. Marching. Bring me no more reports. Let them fly all. Till Birnam would remove to Dunzenane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know all mortal consequences have pronounced me thus. Fear not, Macbeth. No man that's born of woman shall air have power upon thee. Then fly false thanes and mingle with the English epicures. The mind I sway by and the heart I bear shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. Enter a servant. The devil damned thee, black thou cream-faced loon, where goddess thou that goose look? There is ten thousand— Geese villain. Soldiers, sir. Go prick thy face and over-read thy fear, thou lily-livered boy. What soldier's patch? Death of my soul. Those linen cheeks of thine are counsellors to fear. What soldier's way-face? The English force, so please you. Take thy face hence. Exit, servant. Well, Satan, I am sick at heart. When I behold— Satan, I say! This push will cheer me ever, or deceit me now. I have lived long enough, my way of life has fallen into the seer, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends. I must not look to half. For stead curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, which the poor heart would feign deny and dare not. Satan! Enter Satan. What is your gracious pleasure? What news more? All is confirmed, my lord, which was reported. I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked. Give me my armour. It is not needed yet. I'll put it on. Send out more horses, skirt the country round, hang those that talk of fear. Give me my armour. How does your patient, doctor? Not so sick, my lord, as she has trouble with thick-coming fancies that keep her from her rest. Cure her of that. Can't thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow? Raise out the written troubles of the brain and with some sweet, oblivious antidote, cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart? Therein the patient must minister to himself. Throw physics to the dog. I'll none of it. Come, put my armour on. Give me my staff. Satan, send out. Doctor, the thanes fly from me. Come, sir, dispatch. Call Kutz, doctor, cast the water of my land, find her disease, and purge it to a sound impristine health. I would applaud thee to the very echo that should applaud again. Pull it off, I say. What rhubarb, thyme, or purgative drug would scour these English hens. Here's thou of them? Aye, my good lord, your royal preparation makes us hear something. Bring it after me. Do not be afraid of death and bane till Burnham Force come to Dunsenane. Aside Where I from Dunsenane, away and clear, profit again should hardly draw me here. Exeant Act 5, Scene 4 Country near Burnham Wood Drum and Colours Enter Malcolm, Seward and Young Seward, McDuff, Menteeth, Katniss, Agnes, Lennox, Ross and Soldiers marching. I hope the days are near at hand that Chambers will be safe. We doed it nothing. What wood is this before us? The wood of Burnham. Let every soldier hew him down a bow and bear it before him. Thereby shall we shadow the numbers of our host and make discovery err in report of us. It shall be done. We learn no other, but the confident tyrant keeps still in Dunsenane and will endure our setting down before it. Tis his main hope. For where there is advantage to be given, both more and less have given him the revolt and none serve with him but constrained things whose hearts are absent too. Let our just censures attend the true event and put we on industrious soldiership. 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. Exceint, Marching Act Five, Scene Five Dunsenane, Within the Castle Enter Macbeth, Seaton and Soldiers, With Drum and Colors Hang out our banners on the outward walls. The cry is still. They come. Our castle strength will laugh a siege to scorn. Here let them lie till famine and the Agu eat them up. Were they not forced with those that should be ours, we might have met them dareful, beard to beard, and beat them backward home. A cry of women, Within What is that noise? It is the cry of women, my good lord. Exit I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been, my senses would have cooled to hear a night shriek, and my fell of hair would add a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in it. I have supp'd full with horrors, direness familiar to my slaughterous thoughts cannot once start me. Re-enter Seaton Wherefore was that cry? The Queen, my lord, is dead. She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out! Out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Enter a messenger. Thou comest to use thy tongue, thy story quickly. Gracious, my lord, I should report that which I say I saw. But know not how to do it. Well, say, sir. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I looked toward Burnham, and Anon, me thought, the wood began to move. Liar and slave! Let me endure your wrath, if it be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming. I see a moving grove. If thou speakest false upon the next tree, shalt thou hang alive 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 the equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth. Fear not, till Burnham wood do come to Dunsenane. And now a wood comes toward Dunsenane. Arm! Arm and out! If this which he avouches does appear, there is no flying hence nor tearing here. I begin to be a weary of the sun, and wish the estate of the world were now undone. Ring the alarm bell! Blow, wind! Come, rack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. Exceint. Act V. Scene VI. Dunsenane. Before the castle. Drum and colors. Enter Malcolm, Seward, McDuff, and their army with bows. Now, near enough, your leafy screens throw down and show like those you are. You, worthy uncle, shall with my cousin your right noble son lead our first battle. Worthy McDuff and we shall take uponce what else remains to do according to our order. Fare you well. Do we but find the tyrant's power tonight. Let us be beaten if we cannot fight. Make all our trumpets speak. Give them all breath those clamorous hobbages of blood and death. Exceint. Act V. Scene VII. Another part of the field. Alarms. Enter Macbeth. They have tied me to a stake. I cannot fly but bear like I must fight the course. What sea that was not born of woman? Such a one am I to fear or none. Enter Young Seward. What is thy name? Thou wilt be afraid to hear it. No, though thou callst thyself a hotter name than any is in hell. My name's Macbeth. The devil himself could not pronounce a title more hateful to my near. No, nor more fearful. Thou liest abhorred tyrant. With my sword I'll prove the lie thou speaks'd. They fight and Young Seward is slain. Thou was born of woman, but swords I smile at. Weapons laugh to scorn brandished by man that's of a woman born. Exceint. Alarms. Enter Macduff. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face. If thou beest slain and with no stroke of mine, my wife and children's ghost will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched cerns whose arms are hired to bear their staves. Either thou Macbeth or else my sword with an unbattered edge I sheath again undeeded. There thou shouldst be. By this great clatter one of greatest note seems brooted. Let me find him, fortune, and more I beg not. Exceint. Alarms. Enter Malcolm and Seward. This way, my lord, the castle's gently rendered. The tyrant's people on both sides do fight. The noble thanes do bravely in the war. The day almost itself professes yours, and little is to do. We have met with foes that strike beside us. Enter Sir the Castle. Exceint. Alarms. Act Five, Scene Eight. Another part of the field. Enter Macbeth. Why should I play the Roman fool and die a mind-own sword? Whilst I see lives the gashes do better upon them. Enter Macbeth. Turn, hellhound, turn. Of all men else I have avoided thee, but get thee back. My soul is too much charged with blood of vine already. I have no words. My voice is in my sword. Thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out. They fight. Thou loses labour. As easy mayest thou the entrenched air with thy keen-sworded press as make me bleed. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests. I bear a charmed life which must not yield to one of women born. Despair thy charm, and at the angel whom thou still hast served tell thee. Thoth was from his mother's womb untimely ripped. A curse be that tongue that tells me so, for hath cowed my better part of man. And be these juggling fiends no more believe that patter 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 shaw and gaze of the time. We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, painted on a pole and under it. Here may you see the tyrant. I will not yield to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and to be baited with a rabble's curse, though Burnham would be come to Dunsenane, and thou opposed being of no woman born, yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my war-like shield. Lear, McDuff, and damned be him that first cries, hold enough! Excient fighting. Alarms. Retreat. Flourish. Enter with drum and colours, Malcolm, C-word, Ross, the other Thanes, and soldiers. I would the friends we miss were safe arrived. Some must go off, and yet by these I see so great a day as this is cheaply bought. McDuff is missing, and your noble son. 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 confirmed in the unshrinking station where he fought but like a man. He died. Then he is dead. I, and brought off the field, your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end. Had he his hurts before? I, on the front. Why, then, God-soldier be he. Had I as many sons as I have heirs, I would not wish them to a fairer death, and so his knell is knold. He's worth more sorrow, and that I'll spend for him. He is worth no more. They say he parted well and paid his score, and so God be with him. Here comes newer comfort. Re-enter, McDuff, with Macbeth's head. Hail, King, for so thou art, behold, where stands the usurper's cursed head. The time is free. I see thee compassed 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! Flourish. 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 his 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 crowned at schoon.