ROSS.
From Fife, great king;
Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky
And fan our people cold.
Norway himself, with terrible numbers,
Assisted by that most disloyal traitor
The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict;
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof,
Confronted him with self-comparisons,
Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm,
Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude,
The victory fell on us.
DUNCAN.
Great happiness!
ROSS.
That now
Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition;
Nor would we deign him burial of his men
Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's-inch,
Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
DUNCAN.
No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive
Our bosom interest: — go pronounce his present death,
And with his former title greet Macbeth.
ROSS.
I'll see it done.
DUNCAN.
What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.
[Exeunt.]
