That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish. Macb. Where are they? Gone?-Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar !— Come in, without there! 130 Len. Macb. Saw you the weird sisters? Len. Enter LENNOX. What's your grace's will? No, my lord. No, indeed, my lord. 135 Macb. Came they not by you? Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride; The galloping of horse: who was 't came by? Len. "Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word, Macduff is fled to England. Macb. Len. Ay, my good lord. Fled to England? Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits : 140 The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it: from this moment, The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done : 145 The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; 150 But no more sights !-Where are these gentlemen? [Exeunt. SCENE II.-Fife. A Room in MACDUFF's Castle. Enter LADY MACDUFF, her Son, and Ross. Lady Macd. What had he done to make him fly the land? L. Macd. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Ross. Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. You know not 5 L. Macd. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not; He wants the natural touch: for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Ross. My dearest coz, I pray you school yourself: but, for your husband, 10 15 The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further: And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear; yet know not what we fear ; 20 Each way and move. I take my leave of you: L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. 25 discomfort: It would be my disgrace and your I take my leave at once. [Exit Ross. 30 L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead; And what will you do now? How will you live? Son. As birds do, mother. L. Macd. What, with worms and flies? Son. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. 35 L. Macd. Poor bird! thou'dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin. Son. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. L. Macd. Yes, he is dead; how wilt thou do for a father? 40 L. Macd. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. Son. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. L. Macd. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet, i' faith, L. Macd. Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. Son. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? L. Macd. Every one. Son. Who must hang them? 55 L. Macd. Why, the honest men. Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enough to beat the honest men, and hang up them. L. Macd. Now God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? 60 Son. If he were dead, you'd weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. L. Macd. Poor prattler! how thou talk'st! Enter a Messenger. Mess. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! L. Macd. [Exit. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now To say, I have done no harm? What are these faces? Enter Murderers. Mur. Where is your husband? L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified, Where such as thou mayst find him. He's a traitor. What, you egg! [Stabbing him He has kill'd me, mother: 84 [Dies. Exit LADY MACDUFF, crying 'Murder,' and pursued by the Murderers. SCENE III.—England. A Room in the KING's Palace. Enter MALCOLM and MACDuff. Mal. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. Let us rather, Macd. Mal. What I believe, I'll wail; What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest; you have lov'd him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young, but something To appease an angry god. Macd. I am not treacherous. Mal. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil, In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon ; Macd. I have lost my hopes. Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child (Those precious motives, those strong knots of love), E 25 |