Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5

Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, “They come!” Our castle’s strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up. Were they not forc’d with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home.

Hang our banners out on the outer walls. The shout is always, "They're coming!" Our castle is strong enough to laugh a siege out of court: let them camp here until hunger and fever eat them up. If they weren't reinforced by men who should be on our side, we could have met them boldly, face to face, and beaten them back home.

What is that noise?

What is that noise?

It is the cry of women, my good lord.

It is women crying, my good lord.

I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been, my senses would have cool’d To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me.

I have almost forgotten what fear tastes like. There was a time when my blood would have run cold to hear a shriek in the night, and the hair on my head would have stood up and stirred at a frightening story as if it were alive. I have eaten my fill of horrors. Dreadfulness is so familiar to my murderous thoughts that it cannot make me flinch anymore.

Wherefore was that cry?

What was that cry for?

The Queen, my lord, is dead.

The Queen, my lord, is dead.

She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

She should have died at a later time. There would have been a fitting moment for such news. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps along at this trivial pace from one day to the next, to the final syllable of time as it is written down; and all our yesterdays have lit fools the way to their dusty deaths. Go out, go out, short candle! Life is only a walking shadow, a bad actor who swaggers and frets through his hour on the stage and then is heard no more. It is a story told by an idiot, full of noise and rage, meaning nothing.

Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

You come to use your tongue: tell your story quickly.

Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do’t.

My gracious lord, I ought to report what I say I saw, but I don't know how to do it.

Well, say, sir.

Well, say it, sir.

As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move.

As I was standing watch on the hill, I looked toward Birnam, and suddenly it seemed to me the wood began to move.

Liar, and slave!

Liar and wretch!

Let me endure your wrath, if’t be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove.

Let me suffer your anger if it isn't so. Within these three miles you can see it coming. I tell you, a moving grove.

If thou speak’st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.— I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend, That lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;” and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.—Arm, arm, and out!— If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I ’gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.— Ring the alarum bell!—Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.

If you are lying, you will hang alive from the nearest tree until hunger shrivels you up. If what you say is true, I don't care if you do the same to me. I am reining in my determination, and beginning to fear the double meanings of the devil, who lies in a way that sounds like truth. "Don't be afraid until Birnam wood comes to Dunsinane" — and now a wood is coming toward Dunsinane. To arms, to arms, and out! If what he swears to is really there, there is no fleeing from here and no staying here either. I'm starting to grow tired of the sun, and wish the whole order of the world were destroyed now. Ring the alarm bell! Blow, wind! Come, ruin! At least we'll die with our armour on our backs.