Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprights, [Musick. The Witches dance, and vanish.] Macb. Where are they? Gone? pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar! Come in, without there! Len. Enter LENOX. What's your grace's will? Macb. Saw you the weird sisters? Len. No, my lord. Macb. Came they not by you? Len. No, indeed, my lord. Let this Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd, áll those that trust them! hear I did 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. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits : The castle of Macduff I will surprise; That trace him in his line.. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do, before this purpose cool: But no more sights! gentlemen ? Where are these [Exeunt.] Come, bring me where they are SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff's Castle. Enter Lady MACDUFF, her son, and RosSE. Rosse. You must have patience, madam. His flight was madness: When our actions do not, Rosse. You know not, Whether it was his wisdom, or his fear. L. Macd. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place Rosse. My dearest coz', I pray you, school yourself: But, for your husband, He is noble, wise, 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 ourselves; 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 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 iny disgrace, and your discomfort: I take my leave at once. [Exit Rosse.] L. Macd. 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? Son. Nay, how will you do for a husband? Son. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. 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. Son. And be all traitors, that do so? L. Macd. Every one that does so, 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? 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. Blefs you, known, fair dame! I am not to you Though in your state of honour I am perfect. Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. you! I dare abide no longer. L. Macd. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now these faces? What are Enter certain Murderers. Mur. Where is your husband? L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified, Where such as thou may'st find him. Mur. He's traitor. Son. Thou ly'st, thou shag-ear'd villain. Mur. What, you egg? Young fry of treachery? [stabbing him.] Son. He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you. [Dies. Exit L. Macduff, crying murder, and pursued by the murderers.] England. A Room in the King's Palace. Enter MALCOLM, and MACduff. Mal. Let us seek out some desolate shade, Weep our sad bosoms empty. Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men, morn, New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds 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; |