Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 2

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

The English army is close, led by Malcolm, his uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenge burns in them; their reasons are so close to their hearts that they would rouse even a dead man to the bloody, grim call to battle.

Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them. That way are they coming.

We'll meet them near Birnam wood. That's the way they're coming.

Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?

Does anyone know whether Donalbain is with his brother?

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

Certainly not, sir, he isn't. I have a list of all the noblemen: Siward's son is there, and many beardless youths who are only now claiming their first manhood.

What does the tyrant?

What is the tyrant doing?

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

He is strongly fortifying the great castle of Dunsinane. Some say he's mad; others, who hate him less, call it brave fury. But this much is certain: he can't fasten his diseased cause within the belt of self-control.

Now does he feel His 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 title Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe Upon a dwarfish thief.

Now he feels his secret murders clinging to his hands; every minute new revolts throw his broken faith in his face. Those he commands move only because they're ordered to, never out of love. Now he feels his kingship hanging loose on him, like a giant's robe on a dwarfish thief.

Who, then, shall blame His pester’d senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there?

Who, then, can blame his tormented senses for flinching and shrinking back, when everything inside him condemns itself for being there?

Well, march we on, To give obedience where ’tis truly ow’d: Meet we the med’cine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country’s purge, Each drop of us.

Well, let's march on, to give our obedience where it's truly owed. Let's meet the doctor who will cure our sick country, and along with him pour out every drop of our blood to purge our land.

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

Or as much of it as is needed to water the royal flower and drown the weeds. Let's begin our march towards Birnam.