1 It is the cry of women, my good lord.
2 They are, my lord, without the palace gate.
3 Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon's.
4 All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
5 We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us.
6 My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you.
7 Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England.
8 Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do't.
9 Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.
10 Come on, Gently my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial among your guests tonight.
11 My lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well.
12 As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, For a dark hour or twain.'
13 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.
14 Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valour arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault.