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

 SIWARD. Had he his hurts before? 

 ROSS. Ay, on the front. 

 SIWARD. 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. 

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

 SIWARD. He’s worth no more. They say he parted well and paid his score: And so, God be with him!—Here comes newer comfort. 

Enter Macduff with Macbeth’s head.

Macduff

 MACDUFF. 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! 

 ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! 

[Flourish.]

 MALCOLM. 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. 

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

 

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