Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let

grief

Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue ?-But, gentle heaven, Cut short all intermission; front to front,

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, Heaven forgive him too.

Mal. This tune goes manly.

Come, go we to the king; our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above,

Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you

may;

The night is long, that never finds the day. [Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.-Dunsinane.—A Room in the Castle. Enter a DOCTOR of Physic, and a waiting GENTLE

WOMAN.

Doct. I have two nights watch'd with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walk'd!

Gent. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

Doct. A great perturbation in nature! To receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

Gent. That, Sir, which I will not report after her. Doct. You may, to me; and 'tis most meet you should.

Gent. Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.

Enter Lady MACBETH, with a Taper.

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

Doct. How came she by that light?

Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command.

Doct. You see, her eyes are open.

Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doct. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

Gent. It is an accustom'd action with her, to seem thus washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady M. Yet here's a spot.

Doct. Hark, she speaks, I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady M. Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!-One; two; why, then 'tis time to do't:-Hell is murky! -Fie, my lord, fie! A soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our powers to account?-Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

Doct. Do you mark that?

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?-What, will these hands ne'er be clean! -No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.

Doct. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known.

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

Doct. What a sigh is there? The heart is sorely charged.

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body.

Doct. Well, well, well,

Gent. 'Pray God, it be, Sir.

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walk'd in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale-I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out of his grave. Doct. Even so?

Lady M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand; what's done, cannot be undone :-To bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit Lady Macbeth.

* Dark.

Doct. Will she go now to bed?
Gent. Directly.

Doct. Foul whisperings are abroad :-Unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles :-Infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine, than the physician.-
God, God, forgive us all! Look after her;

Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
And still keep eyes upon her :-So, good night:
My mind she has mated*, and amazed my sight:
I think, but dare not speak.

Gent. Good night, good doctor.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-The Country near Dunsinane.

Enter, with Drum and Colours, MENTETH, CATHNESS, ANGUS, LENOX, 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 t.

Ang, Near Birnam wood

Shall we well meet them; that way are they

coming.

Cath. Who knows, if Donalbain be with his bro

ther?

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.

Men. What does the tyrant?

Cath. 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.

Confounded.

A religious; an ascetic.

Unbearded.

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 ::

Cath. Well, march we on,

To give obedience where 'tis truly owed:
Meet we the medecin 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.

SCENE III-Dunsinane.-A Room in the Castle.

Enter MACBETH, DOCTOR, and ATTENDANTS. Macb. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolmt Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequents, pronounced me thus: Fear not, Macbeth; no man, that's born of woman, Shall e'er have power on thee.Then fly, false thanes,

And mingle with the English epicures:

The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sagg† with doubt, nor shake with fear.

Enter a SERVANT.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon ! Where got'st thou that goose look?

Serv. There is ten thousand

Macb. Geese, villain?

Serv. Soldiers, Sir.

Mach. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, Thou lily liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! Those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face! Serv. The English force, so please you.

Macb. Take thy face hence.-Seyton !-I am sick at heart,

When I behold-Seyton, I say -This push
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.
I have lived long enough: my way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf:

+ Sink.

The physician.
An appellation of contempt..

Base fellow.
Dry..

And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare
Seyton!-
[not.

Enter SEYTON.

Sey. What is your gracious pleasure!

Mucb. What news more?

Sey. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was re ported.

Macb. I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hack'd.

Give me my armour.

Sey. 'Tis not needed yet.
Macb. I'll put it on.

Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.-Give me mine ar

mour.

How does your patient, doctor?

Doct. Not so sick, my lord,

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.

Mach. Cure her of that:

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?

Doct. Therein the patient

Must minister to himself.

Macb. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:Seyton; send out.-Doctor, the thanes fly from

me:

Come, Sir, despatch:-If thou couldst, doctor, cast
The water of my land, find her disease,
And purge it to a sound and pristine health,
I would applaud thee to the very echo,

That should applaud again.-Puit't off, I say.-
What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug,
Would scour these English hence ?-Hearest thou
of them?

Doct. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something.