The firftlings of my hand. And even now,

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

[done : Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the fword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate fouls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool:

But no more fights!-Where are thefe gentlemen ? Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter LADY MACDUFF, her Son, and Rosse.

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

Roffe. 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.

Roffe. You know not

Whether it was his wifdom, or his fear.

L. Macd. Wifdom: to leave his wife, to leave His manfion, and his titles, in a place [his babes, 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 neft, against the owl, All is the fear, and nothing is the love ; As little is the wifdom, where the flight So runs against all reafon.

Roffe. My deareft coz',

I pray you, fchool yourfelf: But, for your husband, He is noble, wife, judicious, and best knows

The fits o' the feafon. I dare not speak much further:

But

;

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 fea,
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 ceafe, or else climb upward
To what they were before.-My pretty coufin,
Bleffing upon you !

L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. Roffe. I am fo much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my difgrace, and your discomfort: I take my leave at once.

[Exit Rosse. L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead; And what will you do how? How will you Son. As birds do, mother.

L. Macd. What, with worms and flies ?

live?

Son. With what I get, I mean; and fo do they. L. Macd. Poor bird! thou'dft never fear the net, The pit-fall, nor the gin.

[nór lime, Son. Why fhould I, mother? Poor birds they are not fet for.

My father is not dead for all your faying.

L. Mard. 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.

L. Macd. Why, one that fwears and lies.
Son. And be all traitors that do fo

L. Macd. Every one that does fo is a traitor, and must be hang'd..

Son. And muft they all be hang'd that fwear 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 swearers 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 ›

if

Son. If he were dead, you'd weep for him: 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 Meffenger.

Me. 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:
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 favage;
To do worse to you were fell cruelty,

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

L. Macd. Whither fhould I fly !

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,

Τα

Tofay, I have done no harm?-What are thefe faces?

Enter Murderers.

Mur. Where is your husband?

L. Macd. I hope, in no place fo unfanctified, Where fuch as thou may't find him,

Mur. He's a traitor.

Son. Thou ly'ft, thou flag-ear'd villain.
Mur. What, you egg?
Young fry of treachery?
Son. He has kill'd me,

mother:

[Exit LADY MACDUFF, crying murder.

SCENE III. England.

Enter MALCOM, and MACDUFF.

Mal. Let us feek out fome defolate shade, and there Weep our fad bosoms empty.

Macd. Let us rather

Hold fast 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 fpoke, 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

You may deferve of him through me: and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb,
To appeafe an angry god.

Macd, I am not treacherous.

Mal. But Vacbeth 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 muft still look fo.

Macd. I have loft my hopes.

Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts.

Why in that rawness left your wife, and child (Thofe precious motives, thofe ftrong knots of love), Without leave-taking?-I pray you,

Let not my jealoufies be your difhonours,

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

Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy bafis fure,

For goodness dares not check thee :-wear thou thy

wrongs,

His title is affear'd!-Fare thee well, lord,

I would not be the villain that thou think'ft,
For the whole fpace that's in the tyrant's grasp,

And the rich East to boot.

Mal. Be not offended:

I fpeak not as in abfolute fear of you.

I think, our country finks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gath
Is added to her wounds: I think, withal,
There would be hands uplifted in my right;