His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Ross. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. 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, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. Ross. My dear❜st coz, The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further Each way and move.-I take my leave of you: Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead: And what will you do now? Son. As birds do, mother. L. Macd. How will you live? : [Exit. What, with worms and flies? Son. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. L. Macd. Poor bird! thou'dst never fear the net nor lime, The pitfall 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? L. Macd. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. L. Macd. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet, i' faith, With wit enough for thee. Son. Was my father a traitor, mother? L. Macd. Ay, that he was. Son. What is a traitor? L. Macd. Why, one that swears and lies. Son. And be all traitors that do so? 7 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? Son. Who must hang them? L. Macd. Why, the honest men. Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools; for there are liars and swearers enow 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? 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. Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! L. Macd. Whither(91) should I fly? I've done no harm. But I remember now I'm in this earthly world; where to do harm. [Exit. Is often laudable; to do good, sometime To say I've done no harm? Enter Murderers. What are these faces? First Mur. Where is your husband? L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. First Mur. He's a traitor. Son. Thou liest, thou shag-hair'd villain !(92) First Mur. What, you egg! [Stabbing him. He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you! [Dies. Young fry of treachery! Son. [Exit Lady Macduff, crying "Murder!" and pursued by the Murderers. SCENE III. England. Before the King's palace. Enter MALCOLM and MACDUFF. Mal. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men, As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Mal. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, He hath not touch'd you yet. I'm young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up(94) a weak, poor, innocent lamb T' 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;(95) That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose: Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell : Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, grace must still look so. Yet Macd. I've 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, Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, But mine own safeties:-you may be rightly just, Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare(96) not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, Thy title is affeer'd !(97)-Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp, Mal. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Macd. What should he be? Mal. It is myself I mean: in whom I know That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth With my confineless harms. Macd. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth. Mal. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there's no bottom, none, Macd. As will to greatness dedicate themselves, With this, there grows, Mal. |