A third is like the former--filthy hags!
Why do you shew me this?

eye!

-A fourth?

-Start,

What! will the line ftretch out to th' crack of Doom?-
A feventh! I'll fee no more-

Another yet?
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass,
Which fhews me many more; and fome I see,
That twofold balls and treble scepters carry.
Horrible fight! nay, now, I fee, 'tis true;
For the blood-bolter'd Banquo fmiles upon me,
And points at them for his. What, is this fo?
1 Witch. Ay, Sir, all this is fo. But why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?

Come, fifters, chear we up his fprights,
And fhew the beft of our delights;
I'll charm the Air to give a Sound,
While you perform your antick round:
That this great King my kindly fay,
Our duties did his welcome pay.

[Mufick.

[The witches dance and vanish.

Macb. Where are they? gone?Let this pernicious

hour

Stand ay accurfed in the kalendar!

Come in, without there!

Enter Lenox.

Len. What's your Grace's will?
Mach. Saw you the weïrd fifters ?
Len. No, my lord.

Macb. Came they not by you?

Len. No, indeed, my lord.

Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride,

And damn'd all thofe that trust them! I did hear

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.

Mach. Fled to England?

Len. Ay, my good lord.

Mach. Time, thou anticipat'ft my dread exploits:

The flighty purpose never is o'er-took,

Unless the deed go with it.

From this moment,

The very firftlings of my heart fhall be

The firftlings of my hand. And even now

To crown my thoughts with acts, be't thought and done!

The Caftle of Macduff I will furprise,

Seize upon Fife, give to the edge o' th' fword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate fouls

That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool,
This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.

But no more fights. Where are these gentlemen ?
Come bring me where they are.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to Macduff's Caftle at Fife.

Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Roffe.

L. Macd. WH

HAT had he done, to make him fly the Land?

Roffe. 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.

Roffe. You know not,

Whether it was his wifdom, or his fear.

L. Macd. Wisdom to leave his wife, to leave his babes,

His manfion, and his titles, in a place

From whence himself does fly? he loves us not,

He wants the natʼral touch; for the poor wren,
'The most diminutive of birds, will fight,

Her young ones in her neft, 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.

I

Roffe. My Dearest Coufin,

pray you, fchool your felf; but for your husband, He's noble, wife, judicious, and best knows

'The fits o' th' feafon. I dare not speak much further,

But

But cruel are the times, when we are traitors,

And do not know our felves: when we hold rumour
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear
But float upon a wild and violent fea

Each way, and move. I take my leave of you;
Shall not be long but I'll be here again:

Things at the worft will ceafe, or elfe climb upward
To what they were before: My pretty Coufin,
Bleffing upon you!

L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless.
Roffe. I am fo much a fool, fhould I ftay longer,
It would be my difgrace, and your discomfort,
I take my leave at once.

L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead,

[Exit Roffe.

And what will you do now? how will you live?
Son. As birds do, Mother.

L. Macd. What, on worms and flies ?

Son. On what I get, I mean; and fo do they.

L. Macd. Poor bird! Thou'dft never fear the net, nor lime:

The pit-fall, nor the gin.

Son. Why fhould I, Mother? poor birds, they are not fet 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 fell again.

L. Macd. Thou speak'ft 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 fwears and lies.

Son. And be all traitors, that do so ?

L. Macd. Every one, that does fo, is a traitor, and must be hang'd.

Son. And muft they all be hang'd, that swear and lie?

L. Macd.

L. Macd. Every one.

Son. Who muft hang them?

L. Macd. Why, the honeft men.

Son. Then the liars and fwearers are fools; for there are liars and fwearers enow to beat the honest men, and hang up them.

L. Macd. 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 fign that I should quickly have a new father.

L. Macd. Poor pratler! how thou talk'st?

Enter a Meffenger.

Mef. Blefs you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your ftate of honour I am perfect;

I doubt, fome 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 favage;

To do worfe to you were fell cruelty,

Which is too nigh your person. Heav'n preferve you! I dare abide no longer.

L. Macd. Whither fhould I fly?

[Exit Meffenger.

I've done no harm. But I remember now,
I'm in this earthly world, where to do harm
Is often laudable; to do good, fometime
Accounted dang'rous folly. Why then, alas!
Do I put up that womanly defence,

To fay, I'd done no harm?

what are these faces?

Enter Murtherers.

Mur. Where is your husband?

L. Macd. I hope, in no place fo unfanctified, Where fuch as thou may'ft find him.

Mur. He's a traitor.

Son. Thou ly'ft, thou fhag-ear'd villain.

Mur. What, you egg?

Young fry of treachery?

[Stabbing him.

Son.

Son. He'as kill'd me, mother.

Run away, pray you.

[Exit L. Macduff, crying Murther; Murtherers pursue her.

SCENE changes to the King of England's
Palace.

Enter Malcolm and Macduff.

Mal. Weep our fad bofoms empty.

ET us feek out fome defolate shade, and there

Macd. Let us rather

Hold fast the mortal fword; and, like good men,
Bestride our downfal birth-doom: each new morn,
New widows howl, new orphans cry; new forrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out
Like fyllables of dolour.

Mal. What I believe, I'll wail

What know, believe; and, what I' can redress,
As I fhall find the time to friend, I will.

What you have fpoke, it may be fo, perchance ;
This tyrant, whofe fole name blifters our tongues,
Was once thought honeft: you have lov'd him well,
He hath not touch'd you yet. I'm young; but fome-
thing (22)

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

T' appease an angry God.

Macd. I am not treacherous.

Mal. But Macbeth is.

A good and virtuous nature may recoil

In an imperial Charge. I crave your pardon:

(22)

I'm young, but something

You may difcern of him through me, &c.] If the whole Tenour of the Context could not have convinced our blind Editors, that we ought to read deferve inftead of difcern, (as I have corrected in the Text,) yet Macduff's Anfwer, fure, might have given them fome light, -I am not treacherous.

That