Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

Son. What is a traitor?
L. Macd. Why, one that swears and lies.
Son. And be all traitors, that do so?

L. Macd. Every one that does so, is a traitor, and must be hang’d.

Son. And must they all be hang'd, that swear and lie?

L. Macd. Every one.
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 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?

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!

I dare abide no longer.

[Exit Messenger.

L. Macd.

Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where, to do harm, Is often laudable; to do good, sometime, Accounted dangerous folly: Why then, alas! Do I put up that womanly defence, 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 may'st find him.
Mur.

He's a traitor.
Son. Thou ly’st, thou shag-ear'd villain.
Mur.

What, you egg? (stabbing him. Young fry of treachery? Son.

He has kill'd me, mother: I pray you. [Dies. Exit L. Macduff, crying murder, and pursued by the murderers.

Run away,

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. Macd.

Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men,

Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom: Each new

morn, New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell’d out Like syllable of dolour. Mal.

What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and, what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you

have spoke, it inay 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 You

may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb, 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 'crave your pardon;
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, Yet grace must still look so. 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,)

Without leave-taking?-I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be

your dishonours,
But mine own safeties:-You may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.
Macd.

Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thy

wrongs,
Thy title is affeer'd!—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,
And the rich East to boot.
Mal.

Be not offended:
I speak not as in absolute fear of

you.
I think, our country sinks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds: I think, withal,
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
And here, from gracious England, have I offer
Of goodly thousands: But, for all this,
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before;
More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.
Macd.

What should he be?
Mal. It is myself I mean: in whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted,
That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state
Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd
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,
In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
The cistern of my lust; and my desire
All continent impediments would o'er-bear,
That did oppose my will: Better Macbeth,
Than such a one to reign.
Macd.

Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny: it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,
And fall of many kings. But fear not yet
To take upon you what is yours: you may
Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,
And yet seem cold, the time you may so hood-wink.
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you, to devour so many
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclin’d.
Mal.

With this, there grows;
In my most ill-compos'd affection, such
A stanchless avarice, that, were I king,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands;
Desire his jewels, and this other's house:
And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good, and loyal,

« AnteriorContinuar »