Enter LENOX.

LEN. What's your grace's will?

MACB. Saw you the weird fifters?
LEN. No, my lord.

MACB. Came they not by you?
LEN. No, indeed, my lord.

MACB. Infected be the air whereon they ride;
And damn'd, all thofe that truft them!-I did hear
The galloping of horse: Who was't came by?

LEN. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word, Macduff is fled to England,

MACB. Fled to England?

LEN. Ay, my good lord.

MACB. Time, thou anticipat'ft 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 fhall be

The firstlings of my hand. And even now

To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done;
The caftle of Macduff I will surprise;

Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o'the fword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate fouls
That trace his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I'll do, before this purpose cool:
But no more fights!Where are these gentlemen?
Come, bring me where they are,

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. Fife. A Room in MACDUFF'S Caftle.
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 madnefs: When our actions do not,

Our fears do make us traitors.

ROSSE. You know not,

Whether it was his wifdom, or his fear.

L. MACD. Wifdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His manfion, 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.

I

ROSSE. My dearest coz',

pray you, school yourself: But, for your husband, He is noble, wife, 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 ourfelves; 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 worft will cease, or elfe climb upward
To what they were before. My pretty coufin,

Bleffing upon you!

-

L. MACD. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless.
ROSSE. I am so much a fool, fhould I ftay longer,
It would be my difgrace, and your difcomfort:
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'dft never fear the net, nor lime, The pit-fall, nor the gin.

[fet for. SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not father is not dead, for all your faying.

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 fell again.

L. MACD. Thou speak'ft 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 fwears and lies.
SON. And be all traitors, that do so?

L. MACD. Every one that does fo, 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 fwearers are fools for there are liars and fwearers enough to beat the honeft 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 fign that I fhould quickly have a new father.

L. MACD. Poor prattler! how thou talk'st!

Enter a MESSENGER.

MESS. Blefs you, fair dame! I am not to you known,

Though in your state of honour I am perfect.

I doubt, fome danger does approach you nearly; will take a homely man's advice,

If

you

Be not found here; hence, with your little ones.

To fright you thus, methinks, I am too favage;
To do worse to you, were fell cruelty,

Which is too nigh your perfon. Heaven preferve you!
I dare abide no longer.

L. MACD. Whither should I fly?

[Exit MESSENger.

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, fometime,
Accounted dangerous folly: Why then, alas!
Do I put up that womanly defence,

To fay, I have done no harm?What are these faces?
Enter MURDERERS.

L. MACD. I hope, in no place fo unfanctified,

Where fuch as thou may'st find him.

MUR. He's a traitor.

SON. Thou ly'ft, thou shag-ear'd villain.

MUR. What, you egg

?

Young fry of treachery?

[stabbing him.

[Dies. Exit L. MACDUFF,

SON. He has kill'd me, mother:

Ι

Run away, I pray you.

crying murder, and pursued by the murderers.

SCENE III. England. A Room in the King's Palace. Enter MALCOLM and MACDUFF.

MAL. Let us feek out some defolate shade, and there Weep our fad bofoms empty.

MACD. Let us rather

Hold faft the mortal fword; and, like good men,

Beftride our down-fall'n birthdom: Each new morn,
New widows howl; new orphans cry; new forrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it refounds

As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out
Like fyllable of dolour.

MAL. What I believe, I'll wail;

What know, believe; and, what I can redrefs,
As I fhall find the time to friend, I will.

What

you have spoke, it may be fo, perchance. This tyrant, whofe fole name blifters our tongues,

Was once thought honeft: you have lov'd him well;
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but fomething
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 tranfpose:
Angels are bright ftill, though the brightest fell:
Though all things foul would wear the brows of

grace,

[doubts.

MAL. Perchance, even there, where I did find my

Why in that rawnefs left you wife, and child,

(Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,) Without leave-taking ?-I pray you,

Let not my jealoufies be your dishonours,

But mine own fafeties :-You may be rightly just,
Whatever I fhall think.

MACD. Bleed, bleed, poor country!

Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,