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The day almost itself professes yours,
And little is to do.
We have met with foes
That strike beside us.
Enter, sir, the castle.
Macb. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.
Turn, hell-hound, turn.
Macb. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back, my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already.
I have no words,
My voice is in my sword; thou bloodier villain
Thou loosest labour:
With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed :
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield
Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense;
And break it to our hope.-I'll not fight with thee.
And live to be the show and gaze o' the time.
"Here may you see the tyrant."
I will not yield,
I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough." [Exeunt, fighting.
Retreat. Flourish. Re-enter, with drum and colours, MALCOLM, old SIWARD, ROSSE, LENOX, ANGUS, CATHNESS, MENTETH, and Soldiers.
Mal. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd. Siw. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
Mal. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. Rosse. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt:
He only liv'd but till he was a man;
The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd,
In the unshrinking station where he fought,
But like a man he died.
Siw. Then he is dead?
Rosse. Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of
Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then
It hath no end.
Had he his hurts before?
Rosse. Ay, on the front.
Why, then, God's soldier be he!
Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
I would not wish them to a fairer death:
He's worth more sorrow,
And that I'll spend for him.
He's worth no more;
They say, he parted well, and paid his score:
And So, God be with him!-Here comes newer com
Re-enter MACDUFF, with MACBETH's head.
Macd. Hail, king! for so thou art: Behold, where stands
The usurper's cursed head: the time is free:
Hail, king of Scotland! [Flourish. Mal. We shall not spend a large expense of time, Before we reckon with your several loves,
And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen,
Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,
END OF MACBETH.