1 Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so:-But why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?

Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprights,
And show the best of our delights;
I'll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antique round:
That this great king may kindly say,

Our duties did his welcome pay.

[Music. The Witches dance, and vanish. Mach. Where are they? Gone?-Let this perni

cious hour

Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-

Come, in, without there!

Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd, all those that trust them!-I did hear The galloping of horse: Who wast came by?

Len. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word,

Macduff has fled to England.

Macb.

Len. Ay, my good lord.

Fled to England?

Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits : The flighty purpose never is o'er took,

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:

The castle of Macduff I will surprise; *

Seize upon Fife; give to the edge of the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls

"That trace his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I'll do, before this purpose cool:
But no more sights!-Where are these gentlemen?
Come, bring me where they are.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II-Fife. A Room in Macduff's Castle. Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Rosse.

L. Macd. What had he done to make him fly the land?

Rosse. You must have patience, madam.

L. Macd.

He had none:

His flight was madness: When our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors.

Rosse.

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.
All is the fear, and nothing is the love;
As little is the wisdom, where the flight
So runs against all reason.

Rosse.

My dearest coz',
I pray you school yourself: But, for your husband,
He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows

The fits o'the season. I dare not speak much further:
But cruel are the times, when we are traitors,
And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear;

But float upon a wild and violent sea,

Each way, and move.-I take my leave of you:
Shall not be long but I'll be here again :

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. Rosse. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort:

I take my leave at once.

L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead;

[Exit Rosse.

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.
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?

Son. Nay, how will you do for a husband?

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,

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?

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?

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.

Mes. 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 preson. Heaven preserve you }
I dare abide no longer.

L. Macd.

[Exit Messenger.

Whither should I fly?

1 bave 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.

Son. Thou ly'st, thou shag-ear'd villain.
Mur.

Young fry of weachery?

"Son.

He's a traitor.

What, you egg? [Stabbing him.

He has killed me, mother:

[Exit L. Macd. 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.

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 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 some-

thing

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;