Macb. Where are they? Gone?-Let this pernicious Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride; Macb. Len. Ay, my good lord. Fled to England! word Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits : 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't thought and done: 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; But no more sights !(89)—Where are these gentlemen? [Exeunt. SCENE II. Fife. A room in MACDUFF's castle. Enter Lady MACDUFF, her Son, and Ross. L. Macd. What had he done, to make him fly the land? Ross. You must have patience, madam. L. Macd. He had none : 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, Ross. My dear'st coz, I pray you, school yourself: but for y husband, 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 To what they were before. My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. It would be my disgrace and I take my leave at once. L. Macd. your discomfort : Sirrah, your father's dead: And what will you do now? How will you live? Son. As birds do, mother. L. Macd. [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 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, i̇' 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. 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? would Son. If he were dead, you'd weep for him: if you 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; I dare abide no longer. L. Macd. Heaven preserve you! Whither (91) should I fly? I've done no harm. But I remember now 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? First Mur. He's a traitor. Run away, I pray you! [Dies. [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 our sad bosoms empty. Weep Macd. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men, As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like syllable of dolour. Mal. What I believe, I'll wail; What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, thought honest: you have lov'd him well; Was once 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. 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, 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; |