Macbeth Part 8

Doct. What is it she do's now?

Looke how she rubbes her hands Gent. It is an accustom'd action with her, to seeme thus was.h.i.+ng her hands: I haue knowne her continue in this a quarter of an houre

Lad. Yet heere's a spot

Doct. Heark, she speaks, I will set downe what comes from her, to satisfie my remembrance the more strongly

La. Out d.a.m.ned spot: out I say. One: Two: Why then 'tis time to doo't: h.e.l.l is murky. Fye, my Lord, fie, a Souldier, and affear'd? what need we feare? who knowes it, when none can call our powre to accompt: yet who would haue thought the olde man to haue had so much blood in him

Doct. Do you marke that?

Lad. The Thane of Fife, had a wife: where is she now?

What will these hands ne're be cleane? No more o'that my Lord, no more o'that: you marre all with this starting Doct. Go too, go too: You haue knowne what you should not Gent. She ha's spoke what shee should not, I am sure of that: Heauen knowes what she ha's knowne La. Heere'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 hart is sorely charg'd

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

Doct. Well, well, well

Gent. Pray G.o.d it be sir

Doct. This disease is beyond my practise: yet I haue knowne those which haue walkt in their sleep, who haue dyed holily in their beds

Lad. Wash your hands, put on your Night-Gowne, looke not so pale: I tell you yet againe Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's graue

Doct. Euen so?

Lady. To bed, to bed: there's knocking at the gate: Come, come, come, come, giue me your hand: What's done, cannot be vndone. To bed, to bed, to bed.

Exit Lady.

Doct. Will she go now to bed?

Gent. Directly Doct. Foule whisp'rings are abroad: vnnaturall deeds Do breed vnnaturall troubles: infected mindes To their deafe pillowes will discharge their Secrets: More needs she the Diuine, then the Physitian: G.o.d, G.o.d forgiue vs all. Looke after her, Remoue from her the meanes of all annoyance, And still keepe eyes vpon her: So goodnight, My minde she ha's mated, and amaz'd my sight.

I thinke, but dare not speake Gent. Good night good Doctor.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Drum and Colours. Enter Menteth, Cathnes, Angus, Lenox, Soldiers.

Ment. The English powre is neere, led on by Malcolm, His Vnkle Seyward, and the good Macduff.

Reuenges burne in them: for their deere causes Would to the bleeding, and the grim Alarme Excite the mortified man Ang. Neere Byrnan wood Shall we well meet them, that way are they comming Cath. Who knowes if Donalbane be with his brother?

Len. For certaine Sir, he is not: I haue a File Of all the Gentry; there is Seywards Sonne, And many vnruffe youths, that euen now Protest their first of Manhood Ment. What do's the Tyrant

Cath. Great Dunsinane he strongly Fortifies: Some say hee's mad: Others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant Fury, but for certaine He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of Rule Ang. Now do's he feele His secret Murthers sticking on his hands, Now minutely Reuolts vpbraid his Faith-breach: Those he commands, moue onely in command, Nothing in loue: Now do's he feele his t.i.tle Hang loose about him, like a Giants Robe Vpon a dwarfish Theefe Ment. Who then shall blame His pester'd Senses to recoyle, and start, When all that is within him, do's condemne It selfe, for being there Cath. Well, march we on, To giue Obedience, where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the Med'cine of the sickly Weale, And with him poure we in our Countries purge, Each drop of vs Lenox. Or so much as it needes, To dew the Soueraigne Flower, and drowne the Weeds: Make we our March towards Birnan.

Exeunt. marching.

Scaena Tertia.

Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.

Macb. Bring me no more Reports, let them flye all: Till Byrnane wood remoue to Dunsinane, I cannot taint with Feare. What's the Boy Malcolme?

Was he not borne of woman? The Spirits that know All mortall Consequences, haue p.r.o.nounc'd me thus: Feare not Macbeth, no man that's borne of woman Shall ere haue power vpon thee. Then fly false Thanes, And mingle with the English Epicures, The minde I sway by, and the heart I beare, Shall neuer sagge with doubt, nor shake with feare.

Enter Seruant.

The diuell d.a.m.ne thee blacke, thou cream-fac'd Loone: Where got'st thou that Goose-looke Ser. There is ten thousand

Macb. Geese Villaine?

Ser. Souldiers Sir Macb. Go p.r.i.c.ke thy face, and ouer-red thy feare Thou Lilly-liuer'd Boy. What Soldiers, Patch?

Death of thy Soule, those Linnen cheekes of thine Are Counsailers to feare. What Soldiers Whay-face?

Ser. The English Force, so please you Macb. Take thy face hence. Seyton, I am sick at hart, When I behold: Seyton, I say, this push Will cheere me euer, or dis-eate me now.

I haue liu'd long enough: my way of life Is falne into the Seare, the yellow Leafe, And that which should accompany Old-Age, As Honor, Loue, Obedience, Troopes of Friends, I must not looke to haue: but in their steed, Curses, not lowd but deepe, Mouth-honor, breath Which the poore heart would faine deny, and dare not.

Seyton?

Enter Seyton.

Sey. What's your gracious pleasure?

Macb. What Newes more?

Sey. All is confirm'd my Lord, which was reported Macb. Ile fight, till from my bones, my flesh be hackt.

Giue me my Armor Seyt. 'Tis not needed yet

Macb. Ile put it on: Send out moe Horses, skirre the Country round, Hang those that talke of Feare. Giue me mine Armor: How do's your Patient, Doctor?

Doct. Not so sicke my Lord, As she is troubled with thicke-comming Fancies That keepe her from her rest Macb. Cure of that: Can'st thou not Minister to a minde diseas'd, Plucke from the Memory a rooted Sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the Braine, And with some sweet Obliuious Antidote Cleanse the stufft bosome, of that perillous stuffe Which weighes vpon the heart?

Doct. Therein the Patient Must minister to himselfe Macb. Throw Physicke to the Dogs, Ile none of it.

Come, put mine Armour on: giue me my Staffe: Seyton, send out: Doctor, the Thanes flye from me: Come sir, dispatch. If thou could'st Doctor, cast The Water of my Land, finde her Disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine Health, I would applaud thee to the very Eccho, That should applaud againe. Pull't off I say, What Rubarb, Cyme, or what Purgatiue drugge Would scowre these English hence: hear'st y of them?

Doct. I my good Lord: your Royall Preparation Makes vs heare something Macb. Bring it after me: I will not be affraid of Death and Bane, Till Birnane Forrest come to Dunsinane Doct. Were I from Dunsinane away, and cleere, Profit againe should hardly draw me heere.

Exeunt.

Scena Quarta.

Drum and Colours. Enter Malcolme, Seyward, Macduffe, Seywards Sonne, Menteth, Cathnes, Angus, and Soldiers Marching.

Malc. Cosins, I hope the dayes are neere at hand That Chambers will be safe Ment. We doubt it nothing

Seyw. What wood is this before vs?

Ment. The wood of Birnane Malc. Let euery Souldier hew him downe a Bough, And bear't before him, thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our Hoast, and make discouery Erre in report of vs Sold. It shall be done

Syw. We learne no other, but the confident Tyrant Keepes still in Dunsinane, and will indure Our setting downe befor't Malc. 'Tis his maine hope: For where there is aduantage to be giuen, Both more and lesse haue giuen him the Reuolt, And none serue with him, but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too Macd. Let our iust Censures Attend the true euent, and put we on Industrious Souldiers.h.i.+p Sey. The time approaches, That will with due decision make vs know What we shall say we haue, and what we owe: Thoughts speculatiue, their vnsure hopes relate, But certaine issue, stroakes must arbitrate, Towards which, aduance the warre.

Exeunt. marching

Scena Quinta.

Enter Macbeth, Seyton, & Souldiers, with Drum and Colours.

Macb. Hang out our Banners on the outward walls, The Cry is still, they come: our Castles strength Will laugh a Siedge to scorne: Heere let them lye, Till Famine and the Ague eate them vp: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might haue met them darefull, beard to beard, And beate them backward home. What is that noyse?

A Cry within of Women.

Sey. It is the cry of women, my good Lord

Macb. I haue almost forgot the taste of Feares: The time ha's beene, my sences would haue cool'd To heare a Night-shrieke, and my Fell of haire Would at a dismall Treatise rowze, and stirre As life were in't. I haue supt full with horrors, Direnesse familiar to my slaughterous thoughts Cannot once start me. Wherefore was that cry?

Sey. The Queene (my Lord) is dead Macb. She should haue dy'de heereafter; There would haue beene a time for such a word: To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow, Creepes in this petty pace from day to day, To the last Syllable of Recorded time: And all our yesterdayes, haue lighted Fooles The way to dusty death. Out, out, breefe Candle, Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player, That struts and frets his houre vpon the Stage, And then is heard no more. It is a Tale Told by an Ideot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing.

Enter a Messenger.

Thou com'st to vse thy Tongue: thy Story quickly

Mes. Gracious my Lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to doo't Macb. Well, say sir