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Act V, Scene 9
On Capitol Hill. Thunder and lightning. Macbush and McClark
meet in battle.
McCLARK: Turn, hellhound, turn!
MACBUSH: Of all men else, I have avoided thee.
Get thee back! My soul is too much charged
With blood already.
McCLARK: I have no words: My voice is in my sword.
MACBUSH: Draw thy sword, then,
That thy arm may do thee justice. Here is mine.
McCLARK: Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth,
I will appeach the villain. I shall tread upon the Tyrant's head,
or wear it on my sword.
MACBUSH: Thou art a recreant and most degenerate traitor.
They fight. McClark stabs Macbush.
MACBUSH: Thou hast robb'd me of my youth!
I better brook the loss of brittle life
Than those proud titles thou hast won of me.
Macbush is dust.
McCLARK: Ill-weaved ambition, thou hast made
The happy Earth thy hell.
When thou breathed, a kingdom was too small a bound for thee,
But now two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough.
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood,
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife
No more shall cut his master.
Now call we our high parliament:
And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel
That the great body of our state may go
In equal rank with the best-govern'd nations.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer,
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our land
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front,
And now he capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
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