The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court, and is received Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward: That, by the help of these⁠—with Him above To ratify the work⁠—we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage and receive free honours: All which we pine for now: and this report Hath so exasperate the king that he Prepares for some attempt of war.

He did: and with an absolute “Sir, not I,” The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say “You’ll rue the time That clogs me with this answer.”