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All is the fear, and nothing is the love;
As little is the wisdom, where the flight
So runs against all reason,
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,
Blessing upon you!
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.
[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 ! 'thoud'st never fear the net, nor line, 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 ?
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
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 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 you !
I dare abide no longer.
L. Macd. Whither should I fly?
I have done no harm. But I remember now
I am in this earthy 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 ?- -What are these faces ?
Enter MURDERERS. Mur. Where is your husband ?
L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified,
Where such as thou mayst find him.
Mur. He's a traitor.
Son. Thou ly’st, thou shag-hair'd villain.
Mur. What, you egg?
[Stabbing him. Young fry of treachery?
Son. He has killed me, mother; Run away, I pray you.
[Dies. [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.
Macd. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword; and like good men,
Bestride our downfall’n birthdom :t 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 crave your pardon;
That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose:
Angels are bright still, though the brightest sell:
Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace must still look so.
Mucd. I have lost my hopes.
Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts.
Why in that rawnesst 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'di-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 an 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 our 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,t 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'er-bear,
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 hoodwink.
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;
Desire his jewels, and this other's house:
And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good, and loyal,
them for wealth.
Macd. This avarice
Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root
Than summer-seedingI lust: and it hath been
The sword of our slain kings: Yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foysons & to fill up your will,
Of your mere own: All these are portable ||
With other graces weigh’d.
Mal. But I have none: The king-becoming graces,
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
Bounty, rseverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
I have no relish of them; but abound
In the division of each several crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
Macd. O Scotland! Scotland !
Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken.
Macd. Fit to govern!
No, not to live.-O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptred,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again ?
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accursed,
And does blaspheme his breed ?-Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee,
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,
Died every day she lived. Fare thee well!
These evils, thou repeat'st upon thyself,
Have banish'd me from Scotland.-0, my breast,
Thy hope ends here!
Mal. Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath sought to win me
Into his power; and modest wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous haste:* But God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and
Unspeak mine own detraction: here abjure
The taints and blamesa
Ilaid upam wyself,
Unknown to woman; never was forsworn;
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own;
At no time broke my faith ; would not betray
The devil to his fellow; and delight
No less in truth than lífe: my first false-speaking .
Was this upon myself: What I am truly,
Is thine and my poor country's, to command
Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach,
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men,
All ready at a point, was setting forth:
Now we'll together; and the chance, of goodness,
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent ?
Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once, 'Tis hard to reconcile.
Enter a DOCTOR. Mal. Well; more anon.-Comes the king forth, I pray you? Doct. Ay, Sir: there are a crew of wretched souls, That stay his cure: their malady convincest The great assay of art; but, at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend. Mal. I thank you, doctor.
[Exit DOCTOR. Macd. What is the disease he means ? Mal. 'Tis calld the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, * Over-hasty credulity.
+ Overpowers, subdues.