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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.
Near Birnam woodShall we well meet them; that way are they coming.
And what of the Tyrant Macbeth?
Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies.
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.
Who then shall blame his pestered senses to recoil and start, when all that is within him does condemn itself for being there?
Or so much as it needs, to dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam.
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