Macbeth Act 5 Scene 8
The battlefield. Then before the castle.
The Original
Plain Modern English
Enter Macbeth.
Macbeth
Why should I play the Roman fool, and die
On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes
Do better upon them.
Macbeth
Why should I do the noble-Roman thing and fall
on my own sword? As long as I see living enemies,
the wounds look better on them.
Enter Macduff.
Macduff
Turn, hell-hound, turn!
Macduff
Turn around, hell-hound. TURN.
Macbeth
Of all men else I have avoided thee:
But get thee back; my soul is too much charged
With blood of thine already.
Macbeth
You're the one man I've been avoiding.
Stay back — my soul is already carrying
too much of your family's blood.
Macduff
I have no words:
My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out!
Macduff
I have no words for you.
My voice is in my sword — you villain, bloodier
than language can describe!
They fight.
Macbeth
Thou losest labour:
As easy mayst 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.
Macbeth
You're wasting your effort.
You could as easily wound the uncuttable air
with that sharp sword as make me bleed.
Swing your blade at heads that can be hurt —
I carry a charmed life, and it cannot fall
to any man born of woman.
Macduff
Despair thy charm;
And let the angel whom thou still hast served
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.
Macduff
Give up on your charm —
and let the dark angel you've served all along
tell you this: Macduff was ripped from his mother's womb
before his time. (Caesarean delivery. Not, technically, 'born.' The witches kept their word — to the letter, and only the letter.)
Macbeth
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 believed,
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.
Macbeth
A curse on the tongue that tells me that —
it's broken the best of my courage!
And let no one ever again believe these con-artist fiends
who cheat us with double meanings —
who keep the promise to our ear
and break it to our hope. I won't fight you.
Macduff
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 on a pole, and underwrit,
'Here may you see the tyrant.'
Macduff
Then surrender, coward,
and live as the sideshow of the age:
we'll display you like our rarest freaks,
your picture on a pole with a sign underneath:
'Come see the tyrant.'
Macbeth
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 opposed, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last. Before my body
I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,
And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'
Macbeth
I will not yield —
not to kiss the ground at young Malcolm's feet,
not to be jeered at by the mob.
Though Birnam Wood has come to Dunsinane,
and though you, my opponent, were never born of woman,
I'll fight to the last. I raise my battle-shield
before my body. Come on then, Macduff —
and damned be the first man who cries 'Stop — enough!'
Exeunt, fighting. Alarums. Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, Siward, Ross, the other Thanes, and Soldiers.
Malcolm
I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.
Malcolm
I wish the friends we're missing were here safe.
Siward
Some must go off: and yet, by these I see,
So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
Siward
Some men have to die in a battle. But by the look of who's here,
a victory this great was cheaply bought.
Malcolm
Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
Malcolm
Macduff is missing. So is your noble son.
Ross
Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt:
He only lived but till he was a man;
The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd
In the unshrinking station where he fought,
But like a man he died.
Ross
Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt.
He lived only until he became a man,
and the moment his courage proved he was one —
holding his ground, never flinching —
he died like one.
Siward
Then he is dead?
Siward
Then he's dead?
Ross
Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow
Must not be measured by his worth, for then
It hath no end.
Ross
Yes — and carried off the field. Don't measure your grief
by his worth, or it will
never end.
Siward
Had he his hurts before?
Siward
Were his wounds on the front of his body?
Ross
Ay, on the front.
Ross
Yes. On the front.
Siward
Why then, God's soldier be he!
Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
I would not wish them to a fairer death:
And so, his knell is knoll'd.
Siward
Then God's soldier he is!
If I had as many sons as I have hairs,
I couldn't wish any of them a finer death.
And with that, his funeral bell is rung.
Malcolm
He's worth more sorrow,
And that I'll spend for him.
Malcolm
He deserves more mourning than that,
and I'll spend it for him.
Siward
He's worth no more
They say he parted well, and paid his score:
And so, God be with him! Here comes newer comfort.
Siward
He needs no more.
They say he died well and settled his account —
so God be with him. And here comes fresher comfort.
Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.
Macduff
Hail, king! for so thou art: behold, where stands
The usurper's cursed head: 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!
Macduff
Hail, King! Because that's what you are now. Look:
the usurper's cursed head. Our time is free again.
I see you circled by the pearls of your kingdom,
all thinking the same greeting I'm about to say —
so let me hear their voices join mine out loud:
Hail, King of Scotland!
All
Hail, King of Scotland!
All
HAIL, KING OF SCOTLAND!
Flourish.
Malcolm
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 kinsmen,
Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland
In such an honour named. What's more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time,
As calling home our exiled friends abroad
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny;
Producing forth the cruel ministers
Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen,
Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands
Took off her life; this, and what needful else
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.
Malcolm
I won't let much time pass
before I repay each of you for your loyalty
and settle my accounts. My thanes and kinsmen:
from this day you are earls — the first
Scotland has ever named. Everything else that must be done,
now that a new era is being planted —
calling home our exiled friends
who fled the traps of a watchful tyranny,
bringing to justice the cruel agents
of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen —
who, it's believed, took her own life
by her own violent hands — all this, and whatever else
duty demands, we will perform, by the grace of God,
in proper measure, time, and place.
So: thanks to all of you together, and each of you alone,
and we invite you all to see us crowned at Scone.
Flourish. Exeunt. — THE END.