| 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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