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Macb. Thou losest labour,

As cafie may'ft thou the intrenchant Air

With thy keen Sword imprefs, as make me bleed:
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable Creíts,

I bear a charmed Life, which muft not yield
To one of Woman born.

Macd. Defpair thy Charm,

And let the Angel whom thou ftill haft ferv'd
Tell thee, Macduff was from his Mother's Womb
Untimely rip'd.

Macd. Accurfed be that tongue that tells me fo;
For it hath Cow'd my better part of Man:
And be thefe Jugling Fiends no more believ❜d,
That palter with us in a double fenfe,

That keep the word of promife to our Ear,
And break it to our Hope. I'll not fight with thee,
Macd. Then yield thee, Coward,

And live to be the fhew, and gaze o'th'time.
We'll have thee, as our Rarer-Monsters are
Painted upon a Pole, and under-writ,
Here may you fee the Tyrant.
Macd. I will not yield

To kifs the ground before young Malcolm's Feet,
And to be baited with the Rabbles Curse.
Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou oppos'd, being of no Woman born,
Yet I will try the laft. Before my Body,
I throw my Warlike Shield: Lay on Macduff,
And damn'd be him, that firft cries hold, enough:

[Exeunt fighting. Alarums

Enter fighting, and Macbeth is flain.

Retreat and Flourish. Enter with Drum and Colours,
Malcolme, Seyward, Roffe, Thanes, and Soldiers.
Mal. I would the Friends we mifs, were fafe arriv'd.
Seyw. Some must go off: and yet by these I fee,
So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Mal. Macduff is miffing, and your noble Son.
Roffe. Your Son, my Lord, has paid a Soldier's Debt,
He only liv'd but 'till he was a Man,

The which no fooner had his Prowefs confirm'd,

In the unfhrinking ftation where he fought,

U &

But

But like a Man he dy'd.

Seyw. Then he is dead?

Roffe. Ay, and brought off the Field: your caufe of forrow Muft not be meafur'd by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

Seyw. Had he his hurts before?

Roffe. Ay, on the Front.

Seyw. 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 fo his Knell is knoll'd.

Mal. He's worth more forrow,

And that I'll spend for him.

Sey. He's worth no more,

They fay he parted well, and paid his fcore,

And fo God be with him. Here comes newer comfort.
Enter Macduff with Macbeth's Head.

Macd. Hail, King! for fo thou art. Behold, where ftands Th' Ufurper's Curfed Head; the time is free:

I fee thee compaft with thy Kingdom's Peers,
That speak my falutation in their Minds:
Whofe Voices I defire aloud with mine.
Hail King of Scotland.

All. Hail, King of Scotland.

Mal. We fhall not fend a large expence of time, Before we reckon with your feveral loves,

[Flourish.

And make us even with you. My Thanes and Kinsmen
Henceforth be Earls, the firft that ever Scotland,
In fuch 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 Minifters

Of this dead Butcher, and his Fiend-like Queen;
Who (as 'tis thought) by felf and violent hands,
Took off her Life; This, and what needful elfe
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 fee us Crown'd at Scone.

[Flourish. Exeunt Omnes.

P.2365.

PRINC E

O F

DEN MAR K.

A

TRAGEDY.

Printed in the YEAR 1709.

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