Rosse. My dearest coz', I pray you, school yourself: But, for your husband, Each and move. I take my leave of you: way, 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, 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. [Exit Rosse. 8 Sirrah, your father's dead; 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? Sirrah was not in our author's time a term of reproach. Son. Nay, how will you do for a husband? 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 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 am perfectly acquainted with your rank. I doubt, some danger does approach you nearly: Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. L. Macd. I have done no harm. [Exit Messenger. Whither should I fly? But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where, to do harm, To say I have done no harm? faces? Enter Murderers. Mur. Where is your husband? -What are these 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. He's a traitor. What, you egg? [Stabbing him. He has killed me, mother; Run away, I pray you. [Dies. Young fry of treachery? Son. [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 downfall'n birthdom: 7 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 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; 9 i. e. A good mind may recede from goodness in the execution of a royal commission. 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, Mal. Be not offended: I speak not as in an absolute fear of you. Legally settled by those who had the final adjudication, |