A Camp near Forres. |
|
Alarum within. Enter KING DUNCAN, MALCOLM, DONALBAIN, LENNOX, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant. |
Dun. What bloody man is that? He can report, |
As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt |
The newest state. |
Mal. This is the sergeant |
Who, like a good and hardy soldier fought |
'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend! |
Say to the king the knowledge of the broil |
As thou didst leave it. |
Serg. Doubtful it stood; |
As two spent swimmers, that do cling together |
And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald— |
Worthy to be a rebel, for to that |
The multiplying villanies of nature |
Do swarm upon him—from the western isles |
Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; |
And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, |
Show'd like a rebel's whore: but all's too weak; |
For brave Macbeth,—well he deserves that name,— |
Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, |
Which smok'd with bloody execution, |
Like valour's minion carv'd out his passage |
Till he fac'd the slave; |
Which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, |
Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, |
And fix'd his head upon our battlements. |
Dun. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! |
Serg. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection |
Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break, |
So from that spring whence comfort seem'd to come |
Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: |
No sooner justice had with valour arm'd |
Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, |
But the Norweyan lord surveying vantage, |
With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men |
Began a fresh assault. |
Dun. Dismay'd not this |
Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? |
Serg. Yes; |
As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. |
If I say sooth, I must report they were |
As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks; |
So they |
Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: |
Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, |
Or memorize another Golgotha, |
I cannot tell— |
But I am faint, my gashes cry for help. |
Dun. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; |
They smack of honour both. Go, get him surgeons. [Exit. Sergeant, attended. |
|
Enter ROSS. |
Who comes here? |
Mal. The worthy Thane of Ross. |
Len. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look |
That seems to speak things strange. |
Ross. God save the king! |
Dun. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane? |
Ross. From Fife, great king; |
Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky |
And fan our people cold. Norway himself, |
With terrible numbers, |
Assisted by that most disloyal traitor, |
The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; |
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, |
Confronted him with self-comparisons, |
Point against point, rebellious arm 'gainst arm, |
Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, |
The victory fell on us.— |
Dun. Great happiness! |
Ross. That now |
Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; |
Nor would we deign him burial of his men |
Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's Inch, |
Ten thousand dollars to our general use. |
Dun. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive |
Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death, |
And with his former title greet Macbeth. |
Ross. I'll see it done. |
Dun. What he hath lost noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt. |
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