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? 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? 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? 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 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 talkest! Enter a Messenger. Mess. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect. Be not found here: hence, with your little ones. Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve 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 ?— Enter Murderers. What are these faces? Mur. Where is your husband? L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified, Where such as thou mayst find him. Mur. Son. Thou liest, thou shag-hair'd villain. Mur. ! He's a traitor. What, you egg [Stabbing him. He has kill'd me, mother: pray you. [Dies. Young fry of treachery! Son. Run away, [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. Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men, Bestride our down-fallen birthdom. Each new morn, New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds Mal. What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest; you have loved 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. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil, In an imperial charge. But I shall 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, The title is affeer'd.-Fare thee well, lord: Mal. 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 compared 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 All continent impediments would o'erbear, Macd. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne, We have willing dames enough; there cannot be Mal. |