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?
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 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.
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

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
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 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.
Mal.

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:
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 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
The cistern of my lust; and my desire

All continent impediments would o'erbear,
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 inclined.

Mal.
With this there grows,
In my most ill-composed affection, such
A stanchless avarice, that, were I king,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands;