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A Field with a Wood at a distance.

Enter Menteth, Cathnefs, Angus, Lenox, and Soldiers. Ment.THE English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff.

Revenges burn in them: for their dear caufes
Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm
Excite the mortified man.

Ang. Near Birnam wood

Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.
Cath. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?
Len. For certain, Sir, he is not: I've a file
Of all the gentry; there is Siward's fon,
And many unrough youths, that even now
Proteft their firft of manhood.

Ment. What does the tyrant?

Cath. Great Dunsinane he ftrongly fortifies;
Some fay he's mad: others that leffer hate him
Do call it valiant fury: but for certain,
He cannot buckle his diftemper'd cause
Within the belt of rule.

Ang. Now does he feel

His fecret murthers sticking on his hands;
Now minutely, revolts upbraid 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.

Ment. Who then shall blame

His pefter'd fenfes to recoil, and start,
When all that is within him does condemn

It felf, for being there?

Cath. Well, march we on,

To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd:

L13

Meet

Meet we the med'cin of the fickly weal,

And with him pour we, in our country's purge,
Each drop of us.

Len. Or fo much as it needs,

To dew the fovereign flower, and drown the weeds.
Make we our march towards Birnam.

[Exeunt.

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Macb.

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Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.

me no more reports, let them fly all:
'Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,
I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? Spirits that know
All mortal confequences, have pronounc'd it:
Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman
Shall e'er have power upon thee. Fly, falfe Thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures!

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The mind I fway by, and the heart I bear,

Shall never fagg with doubt, nor fhake with fear.

Enter a Servant.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd lown!
Where got'ft thou that goofe-look ?

Ser. There are ten thousand

Mach. Geefe, villain?

Ser. Soldiers, Sir.

Mach. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,

Thou lilly-liver'd boy.

What foldiers, patch?

Death of thy foul! thofe linnen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What foldiers, whey-face?
Ser. The English force, fo please you.

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Mach. Take thy face hence Seyton! I'm fick at When I behold-Seyton, I fay! this pufh

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Will cheer me ever, or disease me now.
I have liv'd long enough: my way of life
Is fall'n into the fear, the yellow leaf:
And that which fhould accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I muft not look to have: but in their stead,
Curfes not loud but deep; mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
Enter Seyton.

Sey. What is your gracious pleafure?

Mach. What news more?

Sey. All is confirm'd, my Lord, which was reported. Macb. I'll fight, 'till from my bones my flesh is hackt; Give me my armour.

Sey. 'Tis not needed yet.

Mach. I'll put it on:

Send out more horfes, skirr the country round,
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.
How does your patient, Doctor?

Doct. Not fo fick, my Lord,

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her reft.

Macb. Cure her of that:

Canft thou not minifter to minds difeas'd,
Pluck from the memory a rooted forrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And with fome fweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the full bofom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Doct. Therein the patient

Muft minifter unto himself.

Mach. Throw phyfick to the dogs, I'll none of it
Come, put my armour on, give me my ftaff.
Seyton, fend out-Doctor, the Thanes fly from me
Come, Sir, difpatch If thou could'ft, Doctor, caft
The water of my land, find her disease,

And purge

it to a found and priftine health,
L14

I would

I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That fhould applaud again. Pull't off, I fay
What rubarb, fenna, or what purgative drug,
Would fcour thefe English hence? hear'ft thou of them?
Da. Ay, my good Lord; your royal preparation
Makes us hear fomething.

Mach. Bring it after me;

I will not be afraid of death and bane, 'Till Birnam foreft come to Dunfinane.

Doct. Were I from Dunfinane away, and clear, Profit again fhould hardly draw me here. [Afide. Exeunt.

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Enter Malcolm, Siward, Macduff, Siward's Son, Menteth, Cathnefs, Angus, and Soldiers marching.

Mal. Coufin, I hope the days are near at hand

That chambers will be fafe,

Ment. We doubt it nothing.

Siw. What wood is this before us?
Ment. The wood of Birnam.

Mal. Let every foldier hew him down a bough,
And bear't before him; thereby fhall we fhadow
The numbers of our hoft, and make discov'ry
Err in report of us.

Sold. It fhall be done.

Siw. We learn no other but the confident tyrant
Keeps ftill in Dunfinane, and will endure
Our fetting down before't.

Mal. 'Tis his main hope:

For where there is advantage to be given,
Both more and lefs have given him the revolt;
And none ferve with him but constrained things,
Whole hearts are abfent too.

Macd.

Macd. Let our just cenfures

Attend the true event, and put we on
Industrious foldiership.

Siw. The time approaches,

That will with due decifion make us know
What we shall fay we have, and what we owe:
Thoughts fpeculative their unsure hopes relate,
But certain iffue ftrokes must arbitrate:
Towards which, advance the war.

S

[Exeunt marching.

CENE V.

DUNSINAN E.

Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers with drums and

colours.

Macb. Ang out our banners on the outward walls,
The cry is ftill, They come: our caftle's strength

Will laugh a fiege to fcorn. Here let them lye,
'Till famine and the ague eat them up:

Were they not a 'forc'd with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home. What is that noife?
[A cry within of Women.

Sey. It is the cry of women, my good Lord.
Mach. I have almoft forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my fenfes would have cool'd
To hear a night-fhriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouze, and stir

As life were in't. I have 9 'furfeited with horrors,
Direnefs familiar to my flaught'rous thoughts

Cannot ''now`ftart me. Wherefore was that cry?
Sey. The Queen is dead.

Macb. She fhould have dy'd hereafter;

There would have been a time for fuch a word.

(a) For re-inforc'd.

To

9 fupt full

I once

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