The Country near Dunsinane. |
|
Enter, with drum and colours, MENTEITH, CAITHNESS, ANGUS, LENNOX, and Soldiers. |
Ment. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, |
His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. |
Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes |
Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm |
Excite the mortified man. |
Ang. Near Birnam wood |
Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming. |
Caith. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? |
Len. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file |
Of all the gentry: there is Siward's son, |
And many unrough youths that even now |
Protest their first of manhood. |
Ment. What does the tyrant? |
Caith. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies. |
Some say he's mad; others that lesser hate him |
Do call it valiant fury; but, for certain, |
He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause |
Within the belt of rule. |
Ang. Now does he feel |
His secret murders sticking on his hands; |
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; |
Those he commands move only in command, |
Nothing in love; now does he feel his title |
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe |
Upon a dwarfish thief. |
Ment. Who then shall blame |
His pester'd senses to recoil and start, |
When all that is within him does condemn |
Itself for being there? |
Caith. Well, march we on, |
To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd; |
Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal, |
And with him pour we in our country's purge |
Each drop of us. |
Len. Or so much as it needs |
To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds. |
Make we our march towards Birnam. [Exeunt, marching. |
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