SCENE II.

Fife. A Room in Macduff's Caftle.

Enter Lady MACDUFF, her fon, and ROSSE.

L. Macd. What 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. Wifdom! 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 natural touch: for the poor wren,
The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
Her young ones in her nest, 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.

My dearest coz',

Roffe.
I pray you, school yourself: But, for your husband,
He is noble, wife, judicious, and best knows

The fits o' the feason. I dare not speak' much further:
But cruel are the times, when we are traitors,

And do not know ourselves; 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 worst will cease, or else climb upward
To what they were before.-My pretty coufin,
Bleffing upon you!

L. Macd.

L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. Roffe. I am fo much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort :

I take my leave at once.

L. Macd.

[Exit ROSSE.

Sirrah, your father's dead; And what will you do now? How will you live?

Son. As birds do, mother.

L. Macd.

What, with worms and flies ?

Son. With what I get, I mean; and so do they.

L. Macd. Poor bird! thou'dst 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 faying.

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'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 fwears and lies.

Son. And be all traitors, that do fo?

L. Macd. Every one that does fo, 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 muft hang them?

L. Macd. Why, the honest men.

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

L. Macb.

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

I.. Macd. Poor prattler! how thou talk'st!

Enter a Meffenger.

Mel. 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 worse to you, were fell cruelty,

Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!
I dare abide no longer.

L. Macd.

[Exit Meffenger.

Whither should I fly?

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, fometime,
Accounted dangerous folly: Why then, alas!
Do I put up that womanly defence,

To fay, I have done no harm?What are these faces?

Enter Murderers.

Mur. Where is your husband?

L. Macd. I hope, in no place fo unfanctified,

Where fuch as thou may'ft find him.

Mur.

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

Mur.

He's a traitor.

Young fry of treachery?

Enter MALCOLM and MACDUFF.

Mal. Let us feek out fome desolate shade, and there Weep our fad bosoms empty.

Macd.

Let us rather

Hold fast the mortal fword; and, like good men,
Beftride our down-fall'n birthdom: Each new morn,
New widows howl; new orphans cry; new forrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it refounds

As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out
Like fyllable of dolour.

Mal.

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

What

you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. This tyrant, whofe fole name blifters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have lov'd him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but fomething deserve of him through me; and wisdom

You may

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 'crave your pardon,
That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose:
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell:

Though

Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace muft ftill look fo.

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 fafeties :- -You may be rightly just,
Whatever I fhall think.

Macd.

Bleed, bleed, poor country!

Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis fure,

For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, Thy title is affeer'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 Eaft to boot.

Mal.

Be not offended:
I speak not as in abfolute fear of you.
I think, our country finks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds: I think, withal,
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 fhall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my fword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before;
More fuffer, and more fundry ways than ever,
By him that fall fucceed.

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 fhall be open'd, black Macbeth