That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [The Witches dance, and then vanish. Macb. Where are they? Gone?-Let this pernicious No indeed, my lord. Mach. Came they not by you? Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd all those 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. Macb. Len. Ay, my good lord. Fled to England? Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it: from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be't 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; But no more sights!—Where are these gentlemen? [Exeunt. Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out Like syllable of dolour. Mal. What you have spoke, it perchance ; may be SO I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; But, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Macd. What should he be? Mal. It is myself I mean: in whom I know That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth 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. With this there grows, In my most ill-compos'd affection, such A stanchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles from their lands; Macd. O, Scotland, Scotland Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak. No, not to live.-O nation miserable, Fit to govern! When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again By his own interdiction stands accurs'd, And does blaspheme his breed !-Fare thee well! Have banished me from Scotland.-O my breast, Mal. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts False speaking was this upon myself. What I am truly, Is thine and my poor country's to command! Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once, 'Tis hard to reconcile. See, who comes here? Mal. My countryman ; but yet I know him not. Enter Ross. Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. Mal. I know him now : good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers! Ross. Macd. Stands Scotland where it did? Sir, amen. Alas, poor country, Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Ross. That of an hour's age does hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? Ross. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech; how goes't? Ross. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot : Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses. Mal. Be't their comfort We are coming thither: gracious England hath That Christendom gives out. Ross. This comfort with the like! Would I could answer But I have words What would be howl'd out in the desert air, Macd. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Ross. No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Keep it not from me; quickly let me have it. Ross. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. Macd. Hum! I guess at it. Ross. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner, Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, To add the death of you. Mal. Merciful heaven! What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; |