Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first :-
A third is like the former:-Filthy hags!
Why do you show me this?-A fourth?-Start, eyes!
What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
Another yet?-a seventh: I'll see no more :-
And yet the cighth appears, who bears a glass,
Which shows me many more; and some I see,
That two-fold balls and treble sceptres carry:
Horrible sight!-Ay, now, I see, 'tis true;
For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me,
And points at them for his.-What, is this so?
1 Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so:-But why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?-
Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprights,
And show the best of our delights;
I'll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antique round:
That this great king may kindly say,
Our duties did his welcome pay.

[Music. The Witches dance, and vanish.

Mach. Where are they? Gone?-Let this pernicious hour

Stand aye accursed in the calendar!

Come, in, without there!

Len.

Mach. Saw you the weird sisters ? Len.

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 further:
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 elimb upward
To what they were before. My pretty cousin,
Blessing upon you.

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,

Enter Lenox.

What's your grace's will?

Mach. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:

The flighty purpose never is o'er took,

Unless the deed go with it: From this moment,

The very firstlings of my heart shall be

The firstlings of my hand. And even now

To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:

The castle of Macduff I will surprise;
Seize upon Fife; give to the edge of the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I'll do, before this purpose cool:
But no more sights!-Where are these gentlemen ?
Come, bring me where they are.

[Exeunt,

SCENE II.-Fife. A Room in Maeduf's Castle. Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Rosse.

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 de 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

land?

Rosse. You must have patience, madam.
L. Mard.

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.

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.

Mes. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you know

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.

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 preson. Heaven preserve you

I dare abide no longer.

Whither should I fly?

L. Macd.

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,

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,

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 ery; 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 lov'd him well;

He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something

You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom

To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb,

To appease an angry god.

Merd. I am not treacherous.

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'er-bear,
That did oppose my will: Better Macbeth,

Than such a one to reign.

Than summer-seeding lust: and it hath been
The sword of our slain kings: Yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foysons 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
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound

Thy hope ends here!

Mal.

Maeduff, this noble passion,

Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd 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,
For strangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to woman; never was forsworn;
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own;
At no time broke my faith; would not betray
The devil to his fellow; and delight

No less in truth, than life: my first false speaking
Was this upon myself: What I am truly,
Is thine, and my poor country's, to command:
Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach,
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men,
All ready at a point, was setting forth:
Now we'll together; And the chance, of goodness,
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?
Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once,
'Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

Where hearing should not latch them.

Macd.

The great assay of art; but, at his touch,

The general cause? or is it a fee-grief,

That stay his cure: their malady convinces

Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand,

They presently amend.

Mal.

I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor.

Macd. What's the disease he means?
Mal

'Tis call'd the evil:

A most miraculous work in this good king;

Which often, since my here-remain in England,
I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven,
Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people,
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures;
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,
To the succeeding royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,

He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;

And sundry blessings hang about his throne,

That speak him full of grace.

Due to some single breast?

Rosse.

What concern they?

No mind, that's honest,

Mal. My countryman; hut yet I know him not. Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.

thus washing her hands; I have known her continue

in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady M. Yet here's a spot.

Doc. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say !-One; Two, Why, then 'tis time to do't: Hell is murky! -Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afear'd? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

Doc. Do you mark that?

Lady M. The thane of Fife, had a wife; Where is

They were all struck for thee! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now!
Mul. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief
Convert to anger; blant not the heart, enrage it.
Mard. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue!-But, gentle heaven,
Cut short all intermission; front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself;
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven forgive him too!
Mal.

This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the king; our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above

Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you

SCENE I-Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. En fter a Doctor of Physic, and a waiting Gentlewoman. Doctor.

I HAVE two nights watched with you, but can pereeive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?

Gent. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon ber, unlock her eloset, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

Doc. A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

Gent. That, sir, which I will not report after her. Doc. You may, to me; and 'tis most meet you should.

Gent. Neither to you, nor any one; having no witDess to confirm my speech.

Enter Lady Macheth, with a taper.

Lo you, bere she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. Der. How cane she by that light?

Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by ber entionally; 'tis her command.

Doc. You see, her eyes are open.

Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doc. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs

her hands.

Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem

No more o'that, my lord, no more o'that: you mar all with this starting.

Doc. Go to, go to; you have known what you should

not.

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known.

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

Doc. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for

the dignity of the whole body.

Doc. Well, well, well,

Gent. 'Pray God, it be, sir.

Doc. This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so pale :-I tell you yet again, Banquo's buri ed; he cannot come out of his grave.

Doc. Even so ?

Lady M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand; What's done, cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit Lady M.

Doc. Will she go now to bed?
Gent. Directly.

Doc. Foul whisperings are abroad: Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: Infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine, than the physician.-
God, God, forgive us all! Look after her;
Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
And still keep eyes upon her:-So, good night,
My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight:
I think, but dare not speak.
Gent.

Good night, good doctor. [Exeunt.