Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home. What is that noise?
Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord.

Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my senses would have cool'd
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir

As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts,
Cannot once start me. Wherefore was that cry?
Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead.

Macb. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

Enter a Messenger.

Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.
Mess. Gracious my lord,

I shall report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do it.

Macb. Well, say, sir.

Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon methought

The wood began to move.

Macb. Liar, and slave!

[Striking him.

Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so:

Within this three mile may you see it coming;

I say, a moving grove.

Macb. If thou speak'st false,

Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,

Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,

I care not if thou dost for me as much.

I pull in resolution; and begin

To doubt the equivocation of the fiend,

That lies like truth: Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane ;-and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!-
If this, which he avouches, does appear,

There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here.
I'gin to be

a-weary of the sun,

And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.
Ring the alarum bell:-Blow wind! come wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back.

[Exeunt.

SCENE FROM THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI.-Shakspeare.

SCENE V.-Bosworth Field.

Enter KING HENRY.

K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day, or night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea,
Forced to retire by fury of the wind:

Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
Now, one the better; then, another best ;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered:
So is the equal poise of the fell war.
Here, on this molehill, will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret, my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so :
For what is in this world, but grief and woe?
O God! methinks, it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain ;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,

Thereby to see the minutes how they run ;
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many
weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:

So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! How sweet! How lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.

And to conclude-The shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates.
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Alarum.-Enter a SON that has killed his Father, dragging in the dead Body.

Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man, whom hand in hand I slew in fight,
May be possessed with some store of crowns:
And I, that haply take them from him now,
May yet, ere night, yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth to me.
Who's this? O God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unawares have kill'd.
O heavy times, begetting such events!

From London by the king was I press'd forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, press'd by his master;
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have by my hands, of life bereaved him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did !—
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee !—
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;
And no more words till they have flow'd their fill.
K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!
Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.
Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear:
And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war,

Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharged with grief.

Enter a FATHER who hath killed his Son, with the Body in his Arms.

Fath. Thou that so stoutly had resisted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;
For I have bought it with a hundred blows.
But let me see:-Is this our foeman's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son !—
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!
O, pity, God, this miserable age L

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!-
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

K. Hen. Woe above woe! Grief more than common grief! O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!—

O, pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity;

The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses:

The one his purple blood right well resembles ;
The other, his pale cheek, methinks, present;
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish !

If

f you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

Son. How will my mother, for a father's death, Take on with me and ne'er be satisfied!

Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied?

K. Hen. How will the country, for these woeful chances, Misthink the king, and not be satisfied?

Son. Was ever son, so rued a father's death?

Fath. Was ever father, so bemoan'd a son?

K. Hen. Was ever king so grieved for subjects' woe? Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much.

Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[Exit with the Body.

Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding sheet; My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ; For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go. My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; And so obsequious will thy father be, Sad for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murder'd where I should not kill.

K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

[Exil with the Body.

with care,

Alarum: Excursions.-Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE OF WALES, and

EXETER.

Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all

your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull;

Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain;

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds,
Having the fearful flying hare in sight,

With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,

And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands,

Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe. Away! for vengeance comes along with them; Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed;

Or else come after, I'll away before.