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

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

But no more sights!-Where are these gentlemen?
Come, bring me where they are.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff's Castle.

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 madness. When our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors.

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

From whence himself does fly? He loves us not;
He wants the natural touch: 2-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.

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.3 I dare not speak much further:

1 i. e. follow, succeed in it.

2 Natural touch, natural affection. 3 Some commentators consider this expression as equivalent to the "violent disorders of the time;" others insist that it means "what is most fitting to be done in every conjuncture."

But cruel are the times, when we are traitors,

And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumor
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear;1
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. Fathered 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.

Sirrah, your

And what will you do now?

[Exit Rosse.

How will you live?

your father's dead;

What, with worms and flies?

Son. As birds do, mother.

L. Macd.

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?
L. Macd. Why, I can buy me twenty at any
Son. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again.

market.

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?

1 "When we are led by our fears to believe every rumor of danger we hear, yet are not conscious to ourselves of any crime for which we should be disturbed with fears."

2 Sirrah was not, in our author's time, a term of reproach, but sometimes used by masters to servants, parents to children, &c.

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 hanged.

Son.

and lie?

And must they all be hanged, that swear

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 honor I am perfect1

I doubt, some danger does approach you nearly:
If you will take a
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.

[Exit Messenger.

Whither should 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, sometime,
Accounted dangerous folly. Why, then, alas!
Do I put up that womanly defence,
To say, I have done no harm?

faces?

What are these

Enter 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 a traitor. Son. Thou ly'st, thou shag-eared1 villain. Mur.

What, you egg! [Stabbing him.

Young fry of treachery!

Son.

Run away, I pray you.

SCENE III.

He has killed me, mother;

[Dies. Exit LADY MACDUFF, crying murder, and pursued by the Murderers.

England. A Room in the King's
Palace.

Enter MALCOLM and MACDUFF.2

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 downfallen birthdom. 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 yelled out
Like syllable of dolor.

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.

1 "Shag-eared villain." It has been suggested that we should read shag-haired, an abusive epithet frequent in our old plays. Hair being formerly spelled heare, the corruption would easily arise.

2 This scene is almost literally taken from Holinshed's Chronicle, which is in this part an abridgment of the chronicle of Hector Boece, as translated by John Bellenden. From the recent reprints of both the Scottish and English chroniclers, quotations from them become the less necessary; they are now accessible to the reader curious in tracing the Poet to his sources of information.

3 i. e. befriend.

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 touched you yet. I am young; but
something

You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb,

Το appease an angry god.

Macd. I am not treacherous.
Mal.

But Macbeth is.

A good and virtuous nature may recoil,

2

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 must still look so.3

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 dishonors,

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 ;

1 "You may deserve of him through me." The old copy reads discerne. The emendation was made by Theobald. In the subsequent part of the line something is wanted to complete the sense. There is no verb to which wisdom can refer. Steevens conjectured that the line might originally have run thus:

66

but something

You may deserve through me; and wisdom is it

To offer," &c.

2 A good mind may recede from goodness in the execution of a royal

commission.

3 "Virtue must wear its proper form, though that form be counterfeited by villany."