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Young fry of treachery!
He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you !
[Dies. [Exit Lady MacDUFF, crying Murder !
Exeunt Murderers, following her.
Enter MALCOLM and MacDUFF.
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
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.
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
Be not offended:
Of goodly thousands : but, for all this,
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
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,
To take upon you what is yours: you may
With this there grows
my most ill-composed affection such
Mal. But I have none; the king-becoming graces,
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
O Scotland, Scotland !
Fit to govern!
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,