Hang out our banners on the outward walls; MACBETH The cry is still 'They come:' our castle's strength She should have died hereafter; Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie There would have been a time for such a word. Till famine and the ague eat them up: To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Were they not forced with those that should be ours, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, To the last syllable of recorded time, And beat them backward home. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! A cry of women within Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage What is that noise? And then is heard no more: it is a tale SEYTON Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. It is the cry of women, my good lord. Enter a Messenger Exit Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MACBETH Messenger I have almost forgot the taste of fears; The time has been, my senses would have cool'd Gracious my lord, To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair I should report that which I say I saw, Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir But know not how to do it. As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; MACBETH Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts Cannot once start me. Well, say, sir. Messenger Re-enter SEYTON As I did stand my watch upon the hill, Wherefore was that cry? I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. SEYTON MACBETH The queen, my lord, is dead. Liar and slave!
Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still 'They come:' our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up: Were they not forced with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. A cry of women within What is that noise? SEYTON It is the cry of women, my good lord. Exit MACBETH I have almost forgot the taste of fears; The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts Cannot once start me. Re-enter SEYTON Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON The queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Enter a Messenger Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. Messenger Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. MACBETH Well, say, sir. Messenger As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. MACBETH Liar and slave!