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Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.
Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On my own sword? While I see other people alive, their wounds Would be less damaging than mine.
Turn, hell-hound, turn!
Turn around, hell-hound, turn!
Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charged With blood of thine already.
Of all men, I’ve avoided you: But go back now; my soul is already too stained With your blood.
I have no words: My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out!
I have no words: My voice is in my sword: you bloodier villain Than words can describe!
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.
You’re wasting your effort: It’s as easy for you to strike the uncut air With your sharp sword as it is to make me bleed: Drop your blade on vulnerable heads; I have a charmed life, and I can’t be harmed By anyone born of a woman.
Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb Untimely ripp’d.
Despair your charm; And let the angel you’ve served Tell you that Macduff was untimely ripped From his mother’s womb.
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.
Curse the tongue that tells me this, For it has frightened the better part of me! And let these lying spirits be no more trusted, Those who trick us with double meanings; Who keep their promises to our ears, But break them to our hopes. I won’t fight you.
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.’
Then surrender, coward, And live to be the spectacle of the age: We’ll display you, like our rarest monsters, On a pole, with the sign, "Here you can see the tyrant."
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!’
I won’t surrender, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, And be tormented by the common people’s curses. Even if Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane, And you oppose me, since you weren’t born of a woman, I’ll still make one last stand. I throw my shield In front of my body. Attack, Macduff, And damn the man who first shouts, "Hold, enough!"
I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.
I wish the friends we’ve lost were safely here.
Some must go off: and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
Some must be lost: but looking at these, I see, A day as great as this comes at a small price.
Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
Macduff is gone, and your brave son too.
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.
Your son, my lord, has paid the price of a soldier: He only lived until he became a man; And as soon as his bravery was proven In the unyielding place where he fought, He died like a man.
Then he is dead?
So, he’s dead?
Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow Must not be measured by his worth, for then It hath no end.
Yes, and carried off the battlefield: your sorrow Can’t be measured by how valuable he was, because then It would never end.
Had he his hurts before?
Was he hurt before?
Ay, on the front.
Yes, on the front.
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.
Then, God’s soldier he is! If I had as many sons as I have hairs, I wouldn’t wish them to die any nobler death: And so, his death knell is tolled.
He’s worth more sorrow, And that I’ll spend for him.
He deserves more sorrow, And I’ll give it to him.
He’s worth no more They say he parted well, and paid his score: And so, God be with him! Here comes newer comfort.
He doesn’t deserve any more They say he died well, and paid his dues: And so, God be with him! Here comes some fresh comfort.
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!
Hail, king! Because that’s what you are: look, here’s The usurper’s cursed head: the time is free: I see you surrounded by the jewels of your kingdom, Who express my greetings in their hearts; Whose voices I want to hear aloud with mine: Hail, King of Scotland!
Hail, King of Scotland!
Hail, King of Scotland!
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.
We won’t waste much time Before we thank each of you individually, And repay your loyalty. My thanes and kinsmen, From now on, be earls, the first Scotland has ever Named in such an honor. What else remains to be done, Which should be done in this new time, Like bringing back our exiled friends from abroad Who fled from the traps of cruel tyranny; Exposing the ruthless followers Of this dead butcher and his wicked queen, Who, as we think, took her own life by violent means; This, and anything else that’s necessary, By the grace of God, we will carry out in the right time and place: So, thanks to all of you, and to each of you, We invite you all to see us crowned at Scone.