What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look
That seems to speak things strange.
God save the King!
Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane?
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.
Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition;
Nor would we deign him burial of his men
Till he disbursed, at