Young fry of treachery!
Son.

He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you !

[Dies. [Exit Lady MacDUFF, crying Murder !

Exeunt Murderers, following her.

SCENE III.
England. Before the King's palace.

Enter MALCOLM and MacDUFF.
MAL. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and

there Weep our sad bosoms empty. Macs.

Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our down-fall’n 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 loved him well: He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but

something

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.

You

Mal

But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose : Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Thoughallthingsfoulwould 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, For goodness dare not check thee: wear thou thy

wrongs ;
The 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 East to boot.
MAL

Be not offended:
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think our country sinks 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 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 compared 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,
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’erbear
That did oppose my will: better Macbeth
Than such an one to reign.
MacD.

Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne
And fall of many kings. But fear not yet

To take upon you what is yours: you may
Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,
And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you, to devour so many
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclined.
MAL.

With this there grows
In

my most ill-composed affection such
A stanchless avarice that, were I king,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands,
Desire his jewels and this other's house :
And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.
MacD,

This avarice
Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root
Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been
The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will,
Of your mere own: all these are portable,
With other graces weigh'd.

Mal. But I have none; the king-becoming graces,
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
I have no relish of them, but abound
In the division of each several crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should

Oftener upon

Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
MacD.

O Scotland, Scotland !
MAL. If such a one be fit to govern, speak:
I am as I have spoken.
MacD.

Fit to govern!
No, not to live. O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accursed,
And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee,

her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast, Thy hope ends here ! MAL.

Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my

soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself,