Mach. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down! Thy crown does fear mine

eye-balls.

And thy hair (Thou other gold-bound brow) is like the firft

A third is like the former-filthy hags!

Why do you fhew me this?- A fourth-Start, eye!
What! will the line ftretch out to th' crack of doom!-
Another yet?
-A feventh! I'll fee no more—

And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glafs,
Which fhews me many more; and fome I fee,
That twofold balls and treble fcepters carry.
Horrible fight! nay, now, I fee, 'tis true;
For the blood-bolter'd Banquo fmiles upon me,
And points at them for his. What, is this fo?
1 Witch. Ay, Sir, all this is fo. But why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?

Come, fifters, chear we up his fprights,
And fhew the best of our delights;
I'll charm the air to give a found,
While you perform your antick round:
That this great King may kindly fay,
Our duties did his welcome pay.

[Mufick.

[The witches dance and vanish. Mac. Where are they?gone?-Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accurfed in the kalendar!

Come in, without there!

Enter Lenox.

Len. What's your Grace's will?
Mach. Saw you the weird fifters ?
Len. No, my
Lord.

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 truft them! I did hear

The galloping of horfe. Who was't came by?

Len. 'Tis two or three, my Lord, that bring you word, Macduff is fled to England.

Macb. Fled to England?
Len. Ay, my good Lord.

Mach.

Matb. Time, thou anticipat'ft my dread exploits :
The flighty purpofe never is o'er-took,

Unless the deed go with it. From this moment,
The very firitlings 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
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate fouls
That trace him in his line. No boafting like a fool,
This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.

But no more fights. Where are thefe gentlemen ?
Come bring me where they are.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to Macduff's Caftle at Fife.

Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Roffe.

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 wifdom, or his fear.

L. Mac. Wisdom ? to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His manfion, and his titles, in a place

From whence himfelf does fly? he loves us not,
He wants the natʼral touch; for the poor wren,
The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
Her young ones in her neft, against the owl:
All is the fear, and nothing is the love;
As little is the wifdom, where the flight
So runs against all reafon.

Roffe. My dearest coufin,

I pray you, fchool yourfelf; but for your husband,
He's noble, wife, judicious, and best knows

The fits o'th' feafon. I dare not fpeak much further,

0 3

But

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 worft will cease, or elfe climb upward
To what they were before: my pretty coufin,
Bleffing upon you!

L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless.
Roffe. I am fo much a fool, fhould I stay longer,
It would be my difgrace, and your difcomfort,
I take my leave at once.

[Exit Roffe.

L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead,
And what will you do now? how will you live?
Son. As birds do, mother.

L. Macd. What, on worms and flies?

Son. On what I get, I mean; and fo do they. L. Macd. Poor bird! thou'dit never fear the net, nor lime:

The pit-fall, nor the gin.

Son. Why fhould I, mother? poor birds, they are not fer 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. Mac Thou fpeak it 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

Son. What is a traitor ędład mor

f

L. Macd. Why, one that fwears and lies.
Son. And be all traitors, that do fo?

L. Macd. Every one, that does fò, is a traitor, and must be hang'd.

Son. And must 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 honeft 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’ft?

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.
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 perfon. Heav'n preferve you!
I dare abide no longer.
[Exit Meffenger.

L. Macd. Whither should I fly?

I've done no harm. But I remember now,
I'm in this earthly world, where to do harm
Is often laudable; to do good, fometime
Accounted dang'rous folly. Why then, alas!
Do I put up that womanly defence,

To fay, I've done no harm?—what are these faces ?

Enter Murderers.

Mur. Where is your husband?

L. Macd. I hope, in no place fo unsanctified, Where fuch as thou may't find him.

Mur. He's a traitor.

Son. Thou ly'ft, thou fhag-ear'd villain.
Mur. What, you egg?

Young fry of treachery?

Q 4

[Stabbing him.

Son.

Son. He'as kill'd me, mother.,

Run away, pray you.

[Exit Lady Macduff, crying Murder; Murderers purjue her.

SCENE changes to the King of England's
Palace.

Mal.

L

Enter Malcolm and Macduff.

ET us feek out fome dèfolate fhade, and there
Weep our fad bofoms empty.

Macd. Let us rather

Hold fast the mortal fword; and, like good men,
Beftride our downfal birth-doom: each new mörn,
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 fyllables of dolor.

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 fpoke, it may be fo, perchance;
This tyrant, whofe fole name blifters our tongues,
Was once thought honeft: you have lov'd him well,
He hath not touch'd you yet. I'm young; but fome-
thing (22)

You may deferve of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb,

Tappeafe an angry God.

Macd. I am not treacherous.

Mal. But Macbeth is.

A good and virtuous nature may recoil

(22)

I'm young, but fomething

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 de erve instead of difcern, (as I have corrected in the Text,) yet Macduff's Anfwer, fure, might have given them fome light.

I am not treacherous,