L. Macd. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet

'ifaith,

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?

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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?

L. Macd. Why the honest men.

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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.
Ta fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage;
To do worse to you, were fell cruelty,

Which is too nigh your person.

you!

I dare abide no longer.

L. Macd. Whither should I fly?

Heaven preserve

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[Exit Messenger.

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 ?What are these faces?

Enter Murderers.

Mur. Where is your husband?

L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified, 269 Where such as thou may'st find him.

Mur. He's a traitor.

Son. Thou ly'st, thou shag-ear'd villain.

Mur. What, you egg?

Young fry of treachery?

Son. He has kill'd me, mother:

Run away, I pray you.

[Exit L. MACDUFF, crying Murder,

SCENE

SCENE III.

England. Enter MALCOLM, and MACDUFF.

Mal. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and

there

Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Macd. Let us rather

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Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men,
Bestride our down-faln 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 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 lov'd him well;
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but

something

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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 I shall crave your

pardon;

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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.

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 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,

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For goodness dares not check thee!-Wear thour thy

wrongs,

His title is affear'd!-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 absolute fear of you.

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I think, our country sinks bencath the yoke;

It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds; I think, withal,

There

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 compar'd
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, malicious, smacking of every sin

That has a name: But there's no bottom, none,

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330

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,

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Than such a one to reign.

Macd. Boundless intemperance

In nature is a tyranny: it hath been

The