SCENE VII.

The Gates of the Castle at Dunsinane.

Alarums.

Enter Macbeth.

Mach. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.

Enter Macduff.

Macd. 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.

Macd. I have no words,
My voice is in my sword; thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out!

[Fight.—Alarums.

Macb. Thou losest labour:
As easy may'st thou the intrenchant air
With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed:
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield
To one of woman born.

Macd. Despair thy charm;
And let the angel, whom thou still hast serv'd,
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.

Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
For it hath cow'd my better part of man!
And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to our ear,
And break it to our hope.—I'll not fight with thee.

Macd. Then yield thee, coward,
And live to be the show and gaze o'the time.
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole; and under-write,
"Here you may see the tyrant."

Macb. I will not yield,
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,
And to be baited with the rabble's curse,
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last;—
Lay on, Macduff;

And damn'd be him that first cries, " Hold! enough!"
[Alarums.—They fight.—Macbeth falls.

Macb. "Tis done! the scene of life will quickly close. Ambition's vain delusive dreams are filed, And now I wake to darkness, guilt, and horror.—

I cannot rise:—I dare not ask for mercy

It is too late;—hell drags me down;—I sink,
I sink;—my soul is lost for ever!—Oh!—Oh!—

[Dies.

Flourish of Trumpets and Drums—Shout, &c.

Enter Malcolm, Rosse, Lenox, Siward, GenTlemen, and Soldiers.

Macd. Hail, King! for so thou art: the time is free: I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl, That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,— Hail, King of Scotland!

All. King of Scotland, hail!

Flourish of Trumpets and Drums.

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 kills
men,
Henceforth be Earls, the first that ever Scotland
In such an honour nam'd. What's more to do,
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace,
We will perform in measure, time, and place:
So thanks to all at once, and to each one,
Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.

[Flourish of Trumpets and Drums.—Exeunt.

THE END.