OLD MAN.
’Tis unnatural,
Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last,
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.
ROSS.
And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange and certain)
Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,
Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,
Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make
War with mankind.
OLD MAN.
’Tis said they eat each other.
ROSS.
They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes,
That look’d upon’t.
Here comes the good Macduff.
Enter Macduff.
How goes the world, sir, now?
MACDUFF.
Why, see you not?
ROSS.
Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed?
MACDUFF.
Those that Macbeth hath slain.
ROSS.
Alas, the day!
What good could they pretend?