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L. Macd.

He had none: His flight was madness: When our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. Rosse.

You know not,
Whether it was his wisdom, or his fear.
L. Macd. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave

his babes,
His mansion, 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.
Rosse.

My dearest coz',
I pray you, school yourself: But, for your husband,
He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows
The fits o'the season. I dare not speak much fur-

ther: 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 sea, 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 cousin, Blessing upon you!

natural touch:) Natural sensibility. He is not touched with natural affection. Johnson.

The fits o'the season.] What is most fitting to be done in every conjuncture.

- when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves;] When we are considered by the state as traitors, while at the same time we are unconscious of guilt; when we appear to others so different from what we really are, that we secm not to know ourselves.

when we hold rumour -] i. e. believe rumour,

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L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless.

Rosse. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort: I take my leave at once.

[Exit Rosse. 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, 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 should I, mother? Poor birds they

are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. 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 sell 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 swears and lies.
Son. And be all traitors, that do so?

L. Macd. Every one that does so, is a traitor, and must be hanged.

Son. And must they all be hanged, that swear and lie?

L. Macd. Every one.
Son. Who must hang them?
L. Macd. Why, the honest men.
Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for
VOL. IV.

FF

there are liars and swearers enough to beat the honest men, and hang up them.

L. Macd. 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 sign that I should quickly have a new father. L. Macd. Poor prattler! how thou talk'st.

Enter a Messenger. Mess. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you

known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect.' I doubt, some 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 savage; To do worse to you, were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve

you! I dare abide no longer.

[Exit Messenger. L. Macd.

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, sometime,
Accounted dangerous folly: Why then, alas!
Do I put up that womanly defence,
To say, I have done no harm?

I have done no harm?-_What are these

faces ?

Enter Murderers.

Mur. Where is your husband?

L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified, Where such as thou may'st find him.

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- in your state of honour I am perfect.] i. e. I am perfectly acquainted with your rank of honour.

Shall we well meet them; that way are they com

ing.
Cath. Who, knows, if Donalbain be with his

brother?
Len. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file
Of all the gentry; there is Siward's son,
And many unrough youths, that even now
Protest their first of manhood.
Ment.

What does the tyrant? Cath. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies: Some say, he's mad; others, that lesser hate

him,
Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain,
He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause
Within the belt of rule.
Ang.

Now does he feel
His secret murders sticking on his hands;
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
Those he commands, move only in command,
Nothing in love: now does he feel his title
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.
Ment.

Who then shall blame
His pester'd senses to recoil, and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself, for being there?"
Cath.

Well, march on,
To give obedience where 'tis truly ow’d:
Meet we the medecin of the sickly weal:
And with him pour we, in our country's purge,
Each drop of us.
Len.

Or so much as it needs,

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unrough youths,] i. e. smooth-faced, unbearded. 9 When all that is within him does condemn

Itself, for being there?] That is, when all the faculties of the mind are employed in self-condemnation.

the médecin -] i. e. physician. VOL. IV.

GG

To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam.

[Exeunt, marching

SCENE III.

Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.

Enter MACBETH, Doctor, and Attendants.

Macb. Bring me no more reports ; let them fly

all;

Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,
I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know
All mortal consequents, pronounc'd me thus :
Fear not, Macbeth; no man, that's born of woman,
Shall e'er have power on thee. Then fly, false

thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures :
The inind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sagg with doubt, nor shake with fear.

Enter a Servant.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon !
Where got' st thou that goose look ?

Serv. There is ten thousand-
Macb.

Geese, villain?
Serv.

Soldiers, sir.
Macb. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy

fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch?

2 Shall never sagg with doubt,] To sag, or swag, is to sink down by its own weight, or by an overload.

loon!] At present this word is only used in Scotland, and signifies a base fellow.

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