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The day almost itself professes yours,
We have met with foes
Enter, sir, the castle.
[Exeunt. Alarum. Re-enter MACBETH. Macb. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword ? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.
Turn, hell-hound, turn.
I have no words,
[They fight. Macb.
Thou loosest labour :
Despair thy charm;
Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
Macd. Then yield thee, coward,
And live to be the show and gaze o' the time.
I will not yield,
[Exeunt, fighting. Retreat. Flourish. Re-enter, with drum and colours,
Malcolm, old Siward, Rosse, Lenox, Angus,
Siw. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see,
Mal. Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
Rosse. Your son, my lord, bas paid a soldier's debt:
Siw. Then he is dead ?
Siw. Had he his hurts before?
Why, then, God's soldier be he!
He's worth more sorrow,
He 's worth no more ;
Hail, king of Scotland! [Flourish.
END OF MACBETH.