| The Same. Without the Castle. | 
|  | 
| Enter ROSS and an Old Man. | 
| Old Man.  Threescore and ten I can remember well; | 
| Within the volume of which time I have seen | 
| Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night | 
| Hath trifled former knowings. | 
| Ross.        Ah! good father, | 
| Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act, | 
| Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock 'tis day, | 
| And yet darknight strangles the travelling lamp. | 
| Is 't night's predominance, or the day's shame, | 
| That darkness does the face of earth entomb, | 
| When living light should kiss it? | 
| Old Man.        'Tis unnatural, | 
| Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last, | 
| A falcon, towering in her pride of place, | 
| Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. | 
| Ross.  And Duncan's horses,—a thing most strange and certain,— | 
| Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, | 
| Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, | 
| Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would | 
| Make war with mankind. | 
| Old Man.        'Tis said they eat each other. | 
| Ross.  They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, | 
| That look'd upon 't. Here comes the good Macduff. | 
|  | 
| Enter MACDUFF | 
| How goes the world, sir, now? | 
| Macd.        Why, see you not? | 
| Ross.  Is 't known who did this more than bloody deed? | 
| Macd.  Those that Macbeth hath slain. | 
| Ross.        Alas, the day! | 
| What good could they pretend? | 
| Macd.        They were suborn'd. | 
| Malcolm and Donalbain, the king's two sons, | 
| Are stol'n away and fled, which puts upon them | 
| Suspicion of the deed. | 
| Ross.        'Gainst nature still! | 
| Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up | 
| Thine own life's means! Then 'tis most like | 
| The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. | 
| Macd.  He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone | 
| To be invested. | 
| Ross.        Where is Duncan's body? | 
| Macd.  Carried to Colmekill; | 
| The sacred storehouse of his predecessors | 
| And guardian of their bones. | 
| Ross.        Will you to Scone? | 
| Macd.  No, cousin, I'll to Fife. | 
| Ross.        Well, I will thither. | 
| Macd.  Well, may you see things well done there: adieu! | 
| Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! | 
| Ross.  Farewell, father. | 
| Old Man.  God's benison go with you; and with those | 
| That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!  [Exeunt. | 
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