C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Scenes from the Tragedies: The Death of Young Siward

From ‘Macbeth’

[Enter, with drum and colors, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, the other Thanes, and Soldiers.]

MALCOLM—I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.

Siward—Some must go off: and yet, by these I see,

So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Malcolm—Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

Ross—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.
Siward—Then he is dead?

Ross—Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow

Must not be measured 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.

[Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth’s head.]

Macduff—Hail, king! for so them 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!
All—Hail, King of Scotland![Flourish.]