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Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
stones prate


And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.-Whilft I threat, he lives
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That fummons thee to heaven or to hell.





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Macp. EE who comes here !

Mal. My countryman; but yet I know him not. MACD. My ever-gentle coufin, welcome hither.

MAL. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers !

Rosse. Sir, Amen.
MacD. Stands Scotland where it did ?

Rosse. Alas, poor country,
Almost afraid to know itfelf. It cannot
Be call'd our mother, but our grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where fighs and groans, and shrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow seems
A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd, for whom: and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps ; .
Dying or e'er they ficken.

MACD. Oh, relation
Too nice, and yet too true!
MAL. What's the newest grief?


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Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker,
Each minute teems a new one.

Macd. How does my wife?
Rosse. Why, well.-
Macd. And all


Rosse. Well too.
MACD. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace ?
Rosse. No; they were at peace when I did leave 'em.
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech : how goes

Rosse. When I come hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour
Of many worthy fellows that were out,
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot.
Now is the time of help; your eye

in Scotland
Would create foldiers, and make women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.

Mal. Be't their comfort
We're coming thither : gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men ;
An older, and better soldier, none
That Christendom gives out.

Rosse. Would I could answer
This comfort with the like; but I have words
That would be howld out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not catch them.

Macd. What concern they?
The gen’ral cause ? or is it a free-grief,
Due to some single breast.

Rosse. No mind that's honest,
But in it shares some woe; though the main part
Pertains to you


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MACD. If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound,
That ever yet they heard.

MacD. Hum! I guess at it.

Rosse. Your castle is surpris’d, your wife and babes
Savagely laughter'd; to relate the manner,
Were on the quarry of these murther'd deer
To add the death of you.

ML. Merciful Heaven !
Whai, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows,
Give forrow words; the grief that does not fpeak,
Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

MacD. My children too!
Rosse. Wife, children, fervants, all that could be found.
MacD. And I must be from thence! my wife killid too!
Rosse. I've said.

MAL. Be comforted.
Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.

MACD. He has no children.--All my pretty ones;
Did you say, all? what all? oh, hell-kite! ah?

Mal. Endure it like a man.

MacD. I shall do so;
But I must also feel it as a man.
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.

Did Heav'n look on,
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee? naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell llaughter on their souls. Heav'n rest them now!

ΜΑΣ. .

MAL. Be this the whet-stone of your sword, let grief
Convert to wrath ; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

MacD. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle Heav'n!
Cut short all intermission : front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;
Within my sword's length set hira, if he 'scape,
Then Heav'n, forgive him too!

MAL. This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the King, our power is ready;
Qur lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their inftruments. Receive what cheer you may ;
The night is long that never finds the day.


c H A P.




PARDON me, thou bleeding piece of earth!

That I am meek and gentle with these butchers.
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
(Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue)
A curse shall light upon the line of men ;
Domestic fury, and fierce civil ftrife,
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects fo familiar,


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That mothers shall but smile, when they behold
Their infants quarter'd by the hands of war;
All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds ;
And Cæsar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Até by his fide come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice,
Cry, Havock, and let flip the dogs of war.


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FRIENDS, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears, ,

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones';
So let it be with Cæsar! Noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious;
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæfar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honourable man,
So are they all, all honourable men)
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus, says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious ?
When that the poor have cry'd, Cæsar hath wept;


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