L. Macd. Poor bird! thou 'dst never fear the I dare abide no longer. net, nor lime, The pit-fall, nor the gin. [Exit Messenger. L. Macd. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now Son. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they I am in this earthly world; where to do harm are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. Is often laudable; to do good, sometime L. Macd. Yes, he is dead; how wilt thou do Do I put up that womanly defense, 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. 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 Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect. Be not found here; hence with your little ones. As if it felt with Scotland, and yelled out Mal. What I believe, I'll wail; Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve Was once thought honest: you have loved him you! well; A good and virtuous nature may recoil, Of horrid hell, can come a devil more damned In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your In evils, to top Macbeth. Mal. I grant him bloody, pardon; That which you are, my thoughts cannot trans- Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, pose: Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of Yet grace, grace must still look so. Macd. I have lost my hopes. Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin ters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up Mal. Perchance even there where I did find All continent impediments would o'erbear, 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, To take upon you what is yours: you may Whatever I shall think. Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, Enjoy your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou We have willing dames enough; there cannot be I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Mal. But I have none. The king-becoming Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, 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, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at "T is 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 That stay his cure; their malady convinces Mal. I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor. A most miraculous work in this good king; Have banished me from Scotland.—O, my breast, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Mal. Macduff, this noble passion, No less in truth than life: my first false speaking : Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Be called our mother but our grave; where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air, Rosse. No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part If it be mine, Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow Keep it not from me; quickly let me have it. Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for seems Is there scarce asked for who; and good men's Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound Too nice, and yet too true! Mal. What is the newest grief? Savagely slaughtered: to relate the manner, Were, on the quarry of these murdered deer, Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the To add the death of you. Rosse. When I came hither to transport the Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, Mal. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; And braggart with my tongue! - But, gentle Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth Heaven, Cut short all intermission; front to front Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may; Within my sword's length set him; if he es- The night is long that never finds the day. cape, Heaven forgive him too! [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. - Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a waiting Doct. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? Gent. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. Doct. A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? Gent. That, sir, which I will not report after her. Doct. You may to me; and 't is most meet you should. Gent. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. Enter LADY MACBETH, with a taper. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. Doct. How came she by that light? Doct. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. Lady M. Yet here's a spot. Doct. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say!One; two; why, then 't is time to do 't: - Hell is murky!-Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him. Doct. Do you mark that? Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? - What, will these hands ne'er be clean? -No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that you mar all with this starting. Doct. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known. Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh! Doct. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by charged. her continually; 't is her command. Doct. You see her eyes are open. Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body. Doct. Well, well, well, |