A third is like the former--filthy hags! eye! -A fourth? -Start, What! will the line ftretch out to th' crack of Doom?- Another yet? Come, fifters, chear we up his fprights, [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? 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 That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool, But no more fights. Where are these gentlemen ? [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, 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, Her young ones in her neft, against the owl: 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 Each way, and move. I take my leave of you; Things at the worft will ceafe, or elfe climb upward L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead, [Exit Roffe. And what will you do now? how will you live? 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. Be not found here; hence with your little ones. 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, 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 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, Mal. What I believe, I'll wail What know, believe; and, what I' can redress, What you have fpoke, it may be fo, perchance ; You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom 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 |