Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colors, Malcolm, old
Siward, Ross, the other Thanes, and Soldiers.

I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.

Some must go off, and yet, by these I see,
So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

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.

Then he is dead?

Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow
Must not be measured by his worth, for then
It hath no end.

Had he his hurts before?

Ay, 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.

He's worth more sorrow,
And that I'll spend for 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.

Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.

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 of Scotland!

Flourish.

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 honor 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.

Flourish. Exeunt.

-THE END-