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 still, "They're coming!" Our castle is strong enough to laugh a siege to scorn: let them lie out there until hunger and fever eat them up. If they weren't reinforced by men who ought to 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 nearly forgotten what fear tastes like. There was a time when my senses would have gone cold to hear a shriek in the night, and the hair on my skin would rise and stir at a grim story as if it were alive. I have eaten my fill of horrors. Dreadfulness is so familiar to my murderous thoughts that it can no longer make me flinch.

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 some later time. There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps along at this trivial pace from day to day, to the last syllable of written time; and all our yesterdays have lit fools the way to their dusty death. 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've 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 have to report what I say I saw, but I don't know how to say 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 stood on watch on the hill, I looked toward Birnam, and suddenly it seemed to me the wood began to move.

Liar, and slave!

You liar and slave!

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 three miles of here 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're lying, you'll 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'm reining in my resolve, and I'm beginning to suspect the double-talk of the devil, who lies like the truth. "Have no fear 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's no escaping from here and no staying here either. I'm starting to grow tired of the sun, and I wish the whole order of the world were ruined now. Ring the alarm bell! Blow, wind! Come, destruction! At least we'll die with our armour on our backs.