William Shakespeare (1564–1616). The Tragedy of Macbeth.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Scene V

Act V

[Dunsinane. Within the castle]
Enter MACBETH, SEYTON, and Soldiers, with drum and colours

Macb.Hang out our banners on the outward walls;The cry is still, “They come!” Our castle’s strengthWill laugh a siege to scorn; here let them lieTill famine and the ague eat them up.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.A cry of women within.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’dTo hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hairWould at a dismal treatise rouse and stirAs life were in ’t. I have supp’d full with horrors;Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,Cannot once start me.

[Re-enter SEYTON]

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 dayTo the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor playerThat struts and frets his hour upon the stageAnd then is heard no more. It is a taleTold 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 should 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!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 shall 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 beginTo doubt the equivocation of the fiendThat lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnam woodDo come to Dunsinane;” and now a woodComes 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 aweary 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.

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