Gent. Good night good Doctor.
Drum and Colours. Enter Menteth, Cathnes, Angus, Lenox, Soldiers.
Ment. The English powre is neere, led on by Malcolm, His Vnkle Seyward, and the good Macduff. Reuenges burne in them: for their deere causes Would to the bleeding, and the grim Alarme Excite the mortified man
Ang. Neere Byrnan wood Shall we well meet them, that way are they comming
Cath. Who knowes if Donalbane be with his brother? Len. For certaine Sir, he is not: I haue a File Of all the Gentry; there is Seywards Sonne, And many vnruffe youths, that euen now Protest their first of Manhood
Ment. What do's the Tyrant
Cath. Great Dunsinane he strongly Fortifies: Some say hee's mad: Others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant Fury, but for certaine He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of Rule
Ang. Now do's he feele His secret Murthers sticking on his hands, Now minutely Reuolts vpbraid his Faith-breach: Those he commands, moue onely in command, Nothing in loue: Now do's he feele his Title Hang loose about him, like a Giants Robe Vpon a dwarfish Theefe
Ment. Who then shall blame His pester'd Senses to recoyle, and start, When all that is within him, do's condemne It selfe, for being there
Cath. Well, march we on, To giue Obedience, where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the Med'cine of the sickly Weale, And with him poure we in our Countries purge, Each drop of vs
Lenox. Or so much as it needes, To dew the Soueraigne Flower, and drowne the Weeds: Make we our March towards Birnan.
Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.
Macb. Bring me no more Reports, let them flye all: Till Byrnane wood remoue to Dunsinane, I cannot taint with Feare. What's the Boy Malcolme? Was he not borne of woman? The Spirits that know All mortall Consequences, haue pronounc'd me thus: Feare not Macbeth, no man that's borne of woman Shall ere haue power vpon thee. Then fly false Thanes, And mingle with the English Epicures, The minde I sway by, and the heart I beare, Shall neuer sagge with doubt, nor shake with feare. Enter Seruant.
The diuell damne thee blacke, thou cream-fac'd Loone: Where got'st thou that Goose-looke
Ser. There is ten thousand
Macb. Geese Villaine? Ser. Souldiers Sir
Macb. Go pricke thy face, and ouer-red thy feare Thou Lilly-liuer'd Boy. What Soldiers, Patch? Death of thy Soule, those Linnen cheekes of thine Are Counsailers to feare. What Soldiers Whay-face? Ser. The English Force, so please you
Macb. Take thy face hence. Seyton, I am sick at hart, When I behold: Seyton, I say, this push Will cheere me euer, or dis-eate me now. I haue liu'd long enough: my way of life Is falne into the Seare, the yellow Leafe, And that which should accompany Old-Age, As Honor, Loue, Obedience, Troopes of Friends, I must not looke to haue: but in their steed, Curses, not lowd but deepe, Mouth-honor, breath Which the poore heart would faine deny, and dare not. Seyton? Enter Seyton.
Sey. What's your gracious pleasure? Macb. What Newes more? Sey. All is confirm'd my Lord, which was reported
Macb. Ile fight, till from my bones, my flesh be hackt. Giue me my Armor
Seyt. 'Tis not needed yet
Macb. Ile put it on: Send out moe Horses, skirre the Country round, Hang those that talke of Feare. Giue me mine Armor: How do's your Patient, Doctor? Doct. Not so sicke my Lord, As she is troubled with thicke-comming Fancies That keepe her from her rest