Scene II

The English power is near, led on by Malcolm,His uncle Siward and the good Macduff:Revenges burn in them; for their dear causesWould to the bleeding and the grim alarmExcite the mortified man.

Near Birnam woodShall we well meet them; that way are they coming.

For certain, sir, he is not: I have a fileOf all the gentry: there is Siward’s son,And many unrough youths that even nowProtest their first of manhood.

Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies:Some say he’s mad; others that lesser hate himDo call it valiant fury: but, for certain,He cannot buckle his distemper’d causeWithin the belt of rule.

Now does he feelHis secret murders sticking on his hands;Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;Those he commands move only in command,Nothing in love: now does he feel his titleHang loose about him, like a giant’s robeUpon a dwarfish thief.

Who then shall blameHis pester’d senses to recoil and start,When all that is within him does condemnItself for being there?

Well, march we on,To give obedience where ’tis truly owed:Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal,And with him pour we in our country’s purgeEach drop of us.

Or so much as it needs,To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds.Make we our march towards Birnam. Exeunt, marching.