The Tragedy of Macbeth: Act 5

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.

Now does he feel
His secret murders sticking on his hands.
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach.

Then fly, false thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures.

My way of life
Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have, but in their stead
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath
Which the poor heart would fain deny and dare
not.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

If thou couldst, doctor, cast
The water of my land, find her disease,
And purge it to a sound and pristine health,
I would applaud thee to the very echo
That should applaud again.

I will not be afraid of death and bane
Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane.

Let every soldier hew him down a bough
And bear ’t before him.

Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate;
Towards which, advance the war.

If this which he avouches does appear,
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.

Ring the alarum bell!—Blow wind, come wrack,
At least we’ll die with harness on our back.

But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,
Brandished by man that’s of a woman born.

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.

Hail, King! for so thou art. Behold where stands
Th’ usurper’s cursèd head.

I see thee compassed with thy kingdom’s pearl,
That speak my salutation in their minds,
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine.
Hail, King of Scotland!