Mal. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. Rosse. 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'd
In the unshrinking station where he fought,
But like a man he died.

Siw.

Then he is dead?

Rosse. Ay, and brought off the field: your

cause of sorrow

Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

Siw.

Had he his hurts before?

Rosse. Ay, on the front.

Siw.

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.

Mal.

He's worth more sorrow,

And that I'll spend for him.
Siw.
He's worth no more;
They say, he parted well, and paid his score:
So, God be with him!-Here comes newer
comfort.

Re-enter MACDUFF, with MACBETH's Head on a Pole.

Macd. Hail, king! for so thou art: Behold, where stands

The 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!

Ай.

King of Scotland, hail! [Flourish. Mal. 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 fiendlike 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.
[Flourish. Exeunt.