He’s worth more sorrow, And that I’ll spend for him.
Well then, he’s God’s soldier now! If I had as many sons as I have hairs on my head, I couldn’t hope that any of them would die more honorably than he did. And that’s all there is to it.
Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow Must not be measured by his worth, for then It hath no end.
Yes, on his front.
Had he his hurts before?
Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt:He only lived but till he was a man;The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'dIn the unshrinking station where he fought,But like a man he died.
Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
Then he is dead?
Some must go off: and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.
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 opposed, being of no woman born,Yet I will try the last. Before my bodyI throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'
Curse you for telling me this. You’ve fightened away my courage. I don’t believe those evil creatures anymore. They tricked me with their wordgames, raising my hopes and then destroying them. I won’t fight you.
Then yield thee, coward,And live to be the show and gaze o' the time:We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,Painted on a pole, and underwrit, 'Here may you see the tyrant.'