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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