Lennox, and Soldiers.]MENTEITH.
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.
ANGUS.
Near Birnam wood
Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.
CAITHNESS.
Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?
LENNOX.
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.
MENTEITH.
What does the tyrant?
CAITHNESS.
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.
ANGUS.
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.
MENTEITH.
Who, then, shall blame
His pester’d senses to recoil and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself for being there?
CAITHNESS.
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.
LENNOX.
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.]
MACBETH.
Bring me no more reports; let them fly all:
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane
I cannot taint with fear. What’s the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know
All mortal consequences have pronounc’d me thus,—
“Fear not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of woman
Shall e’er have power upon thee.”—Then fly, false thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures:
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.
[Enter a Servant.]
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon!
Where gott’st thou that goose look?
SERVANT.
There is ten thousand—
MACBETH.
Geese, villain?
SERVANT.
Soldiers, sir.
MACBETH.
Go prick thy face and overred 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?
SERVANT.
The English force, so please you.
MACBETH.
Take thy face hence.
[Exit Servant.]
Seyton!—I am sick at heart,
When I behold—Seyton, I say!- This push
Will chair me ever or disseat me now.
I have liv’d long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf;
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, and dare not.
Seyton!—
[Enter Seyton.]
SEYTON.
What’s your gracious pleasure?
MACBETH.
What news more?
SEYTON.
All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.
MACBETH.
