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“Before my body
I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,
And damned be him that first cries “Hold! Enough!”
“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.”
“Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
I would not wish them to a fairer death;
And so his knell is knolled.”
“He’s worth more sorrow, and that I’ll spend for
him.”
“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 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 crowned at Scone.