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Gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men

Malcolm
Gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men;
An older and a better soldier none
That Christendom gives out.
Ross
Would I could answer
This comfort with the like. But I have words
That would be howled out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them.

Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief
Convert to anger. Blunt not the heart; enrage it.

Macduff
What concern they—
The general cause, or is it a fee-grief
Due to some single breast?
Ross
No mind that’s honest
But in it shares some woe, though the main part
Pertains to you alone.
Macduff
If it be mine,
Keep it not from me. Quickly let me have it.
Ross

Let not your ears despise my tongue forever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound
That ever yet they heard.
Macduff
Hum! I guess at it.
Ross
Your castle is surprised, your wife and babes
Savagely slaughtered. To relate the manner
Were on the quarry of these murdered deer
To add the death of you.
Malcolm
Merciful heaven!—
What, man, ne’er pull your hat upon your brows.
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
Whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break.Syncope
Macduff
My children too?
Ross
Wife, children, servants, all that could be found.
Macduff
And I must be from thence? My wife killed too?
Ross
I have said.
Malcolm
Be comforted.
Let's make us med'cines of our great revengeSyncope
To cure this deadly grief.
Macduff
He has no children. All my pretty ones?
Did you say “all”? O hell-kite! All?
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?
Malcolm
Dispute it like a man.
Macduff
I shall do so,
But I must also feel it as a man.
I cannot but remember such things were
That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now.
Malcolm
Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief
Convert to anger. Blunt not the heart; enrage it.
Macduff
O, I could play the woman with mine eyes
And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens,
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.
Malcolm
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.
 They exit.

Source:
Act 4
Scene 3
Line 219

Source Type:

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