1 Witch. Ay, Sir, all this is fo. But why [Mufick. [The witches dance and vanish. Macb. Where are they! gone!-Let this pernicious hour Stand ay accurfed in the calendar! Come in, without there! Enter Lenox. Len. What's your Grace's will? Macb. Saw you the weird fifters ? 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. Macb. Time, thou anticipat'it my dread exploits : The flighty purpose never is o'er-took, Unless the deed go with it. From this moment, The very firftlings of my heart fhall be The firftlings of my hand. And even now To crown my thoughts with acts, be't thought and done! Seize upon Fife, give to the edge o' th' fword That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool, But no more fights. Where are thefe gentlemen? P 3 [Exeunt. SCENE SCENE, changes to Macduff's Caftle at Fife. L. Macd. Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Roffe. WHAT had he done, to make him fly the land? Roffe. You must have patience, Madam. His flight was madness; when our actions do not Reffe. You know not, Whether it was his wifdom, or his fear.. 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 hot, Roffe. My dearest Coufin, I pray you, fchool yourfelf; but for your husband, The fits o' the feafon. I dare not speak much further, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour Each way, and move. I take my leave of you; Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward L. Macd. Fathered he is, and yet he's fatherless. L. Mard. Sirrah, your father's dead, [Exit Roffe. And And what will you do now? how will you live? L. Macd. What, on worms and flies? Son. On what I get, I mean, and fo do they. L. Macd. Poor bird! thou'dft never fear the net, nor The pit-fall, nor the gin. [lime : 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'ft with all thy wit, and yet, 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. [i' faith, L. Macd. Every one, that does fo, is a traitor, and must be hang'd. Son. And muft they all be hang'd, that fwear and lie? 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 fhould quickly have a new father. L. Macd. Poor pratler! how thou talk'st ? Enter a Mefenger Mef. Blefs you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect; I doubt, fome danger does approach you nearly. Be not found here; hence with your little ones. Which is too nigh your perfon. Heav'n preferve you! L. Macd. Whither fhould I fly? I've done no harm. But I remember now, To fay, I'd done no harm what are thefe faces ? Mur. Where is your husband? L. Macd. I hope, in no place fo unfanctified, Where fuch as thou may'ft find him. Mur. He's a traitor. Son. Thou ly', thou fhag-ear'd villain. Mur. What, you egg? Young fry of treachery? Son. He 'as kill'd me, mother, [Stabbing him Run away, pray you. [Exit L. Macduff, crying murder; [Murderers purfue her. SCENE changes to the King of England's Palace. Enter Malcolm and Macduff. LET' us feek out fome defolate fhade, and there Mal.L Weep our fad bosoms empty. Macd. Let us rather Hold faft the mortal fword; and, like good men, Mal Mal. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redrefs,' What you have spoke, it may be fo, perchance; You may deferve of him through me, and wifdom Macd. I am not treacherous. Mal. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. I crave your pardon: That which you are, my thoughts cannot tranfpofe; Angels are bright ftill, though the brighteft fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace muft ftill look fo. Macd. I've loft my hopes. doubts Mal. Perchance, ev'n there, where I did find my Why in that rawnefs left you wife and children? Thofe precious motives, thofe ftrong knots of love, Without leave-taking?-I pray you, Let not my jealoufies be your difhonours, But mine own fafeties: you may be rightly juft, Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy bafis fure, For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, (36) I'm young, but fom thing You may difcern of bim through me, &c.] If the whole tenour of the context could not have convinced our blind editors, that we ought to read deferve inftead of difcern, (as I have corrected in the text,) yet Macduff's anfwer, fure, might have given them fome light,I am not treacherous. There is another paffage, in which vice verja the fame error has been committed upon the other word: K. Lear. (old 4to in 1608) Thine honour from thy fuff'ring. where the fenfe evidently demands, difcerning an eye deferving |