Macbeth: What do you think it is, Servant?
Macbeth’s Messenger: Appears to be a soldier dressed as a tree, M’Lord.
Macbeth: Nonsense, twaddle, what rubbish passes thy surly lips, nonthane, tis but a tree. A bush, really.
Macbeth’s Messenger: A bush with legs on either side, in that case King, that hastens hither.
Macbeth: I see now quite clearly that it is no bush, but a tree.
Macbeth’s Messenger: A tree, My Sovereign, with sword and javelin for branches.
Macbeth: Yes, I can make it out now quite clearly, an acorn of a tree fallen not far from Birnam Wood. Tis a tree.
Macbeth’s Messenger: A funny little tree, M’Lord.
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