Act 5, Scene 5
Dunsinane. Within the castle.
- Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with Drum and Colors.
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- Hang out our banners on the outward walls,
- The cry is still, “They come!” Our castle’s strength
- Will laugh a siege to scorn; here let them lie
- Till famine and the ague eat them up.
- Were they not forc’d with those that should be ours,
- We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
- And beat them backward home.
- A cry within of women.
- What is that noise?
- It is the cry of women, my good lord.
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- I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
- The time has been, my senses would have cool’d
- To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair
- Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
- As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with horrors;
- Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,
- Cannot once start me.
- Enter Seyton.
- Wherefore was that cry?
- The Queen, my lord, is dead.
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- 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 Macbeth’s Messenger.
- Thou com’st to use thy tongue;
- Thy story quickly.
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- Gracious my lord,
- I should report that which I say I saw,
- But know not how to do’t.
- Well, say, sir.
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- As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
- I look’d toward Birnan, and anon methought
- The wood began to move.
- Liar and slave!
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- Let me endure your wrath, if’t be not so.
- Within this three mile may you see it coming;
- I say, a moving grove.
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- If thou speak’st false,
- Upon the next tree shall 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 th’ equivocation of the fiend
- That lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnan wood
- Do come to Dunsinane,” and now a wood
- Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!
- If this which he avouches does appear,
- There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here.
- I gin to be a-weary of the sun,
- And wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.
- Ring the alarum-bell! Blow wind, come wrack,
- At least we’ll die with harness on our back.