Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 8

Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.

Why should I play the Roman fool and die on my own sword? As long as I see men living, the wounds do better on them.

Turn, hell-hound, turn!

Turn around, hound of hell, turn around!

Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg’d With blood of thine already.

Of all men, you are the one I have avoided. But get back: my soul is already too heavily loaded with the blood of your family.

I have no words; My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out!

I have no words. My voice is in my sword, you villain bloodier than any words can describe you!

Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.

You are wasting your effort. You could as easily mark the air, which cannot be cut, with your sharp sword as make me bleed. Bring your blade down on heads that can be wounded. I live a charmed life, which cannot be ended by anyone born of a woman.

Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast serv’d Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb Untimely ripp’d.

Give up hope in your charm, and let the angel you have always served tell you this: Macduff was cut out of his mother's womb before his time.

Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow’d my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope!—I’ll not fight with thee.

Cursed be the tongue that tells me that, because it has frightened the manhood out of me! And let no one ever believe these cheating devils again, who trick us with words that have two meanings, who keep their promise as we hear it and break it for what we hoped. I will not fight with you.

Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o’ th’ time. We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, “Here may you see the tyrant.”

Then surrender, coward, and live to be the spectacle and freak show of the age. We'll have you displayed, the way we display our rarer monsters, painted on a signboard, with these words written underneath: "Here you can see the tyrant."

I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, And to be baited with the rabble’s curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”

I will not surrender, to kiss the ground in front of young Malcolm's feet and be tormented by the curses of the mob. Even though Birnam wood has come to Dunsinane, and you stand against me, not born of a woman, still I will fight it out to the end. I hold my war shield up in front of my body. Come at me, Macduff, and damn the man who is first to cry, "Stop, enough!"

I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d.

I wish the friends we are missing had arrived here safely.

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

Some men have to die; and yet, judging by the ones I see here, a day as great as this has been bought cheaply.

Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

Macduff is missing, and so is your noble son.

Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt: He only liv’d 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.

Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt. He lived only long enough to become a man; and as soon as his courage had proved that, in the position he held without flinching where he fought, he died like a man.

Then he is dead?

So he is dead?

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

Yes, and carried off the field. Your grief must not be measured by how much he was worth, because then it would have no end.

Had he his hurts before?

Were his wounds on the front of his body?

Ay, on the front.

Yes, 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.

Then let him be God's soldier! If I had as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish a finer death for them. And so his funeral bell has been rung.

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

He deserves more sorrow than that, and I will spend it on 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.

He deserves no more. They say he went well and settled his account. And so, God be with him! Here comes fresher comfort.

Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands Th’ 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, because that is what you are. Look, here is where the cursed head of the usurper stands. The time is free. I see you surrounded by the pearl of your kingdom, who are saying my greeting in their own minds; and I want their voices out loud along with mine: Hail, King of Scotland!

Hail, King of Scotland!

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 honour nam’d. What’s more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,— As calling home our exil’d 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.

We will not let much time go by before we settle the account of each of your loyalties and pay you what we owe you. My thanes and kinsmen, from now on be earls, the first that Scotland has ever named to such an honour. What else remains to be done, which should be planted fresh in this new age — such as calling our exiled friends home from abroad, who fled the traps of a watchful tyranny; bringing to trial the cruel agents of this dead butcher and his devilish queen, who, as people think, took her own life with her own violent hands — this, and whatever else is needed and demands our attention, we will carry out, by the grace of Grace, in the right amount, at the right time and in the right place. So thank you to all of you together, and to each one of you, whom we invite to see us crowned at Scone.