Thy personal venture in the rebels fight,
His wonders and his praises do contend,

Which fhould be thine, or his. Silenc'd with That,
In viewing o'er the reft o'th' felf-fame day,
He finds thee in the ftout Norweyan ranks,
Nothing afraid of what thy felf didst make,
Strange images of death. As thick as hail,
Came Poft on Poft; and every one did bear
Thy praises in his Kingdom's great defence:
And pour'd them down before him.
Ang. We are fent,

To give thee, from our royal Mafter, thanks;
Only to herald thee into his fight,

Not pay thee.

Roffe. And for an earneft of a greater honour,
He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:
In which Addition, hail, moft worthy Thane !
For it is thine.

Ban. What, can the Devil speak true?
Mach. The Thane of Cawdor lives;
Why do you drefs me in his borrow'd robes?
Ang. Who was the Thane, lives yet';
But under heavy judgment bears that life,
Which he deferves to lofe. Whether he was
Combin'd with Norway, or did line the Rebel
With hidden help and vantage; or that with both
He labour'd in his country's wrack, I know not:
But treafons capital, confefs'd, and prov❜d,
Have overthrown him.

Macb. Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor!
The greatest is behind. Thanks for your pains.

[Afide.

[To Angus.

Do you not hope, your children fhall be Kings?

[To Banquo,

When those, that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me,
Promis'd no lefs to them?

Ban. That trufted home,

Might yet enkindle you unto the Crown,

Beides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis ftrange:
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,

The

The inftruments of Darkness tell us truths,

Win us with honeft trifles, to betray us

In deepest consequence.

Coufins, a word, I pray you.

Mach. Two truths are told,

[To Roffe and Angus.

[Afide.

As happy prologues to the fwelling act

Of the imperial theme. I thank you, gentlemen

This fupernatural Solliciting

Cannot be ill; cannot be good.

If ill,

Why hath it giv'n me earnest of fuccefs,
Commencing in a truth? I'm Thane of Cawdor.
If good; why do I yield to that fuggestion,
Whofe horrid image doth unfix my hair,
And make my feated heart knock at my ribs
Against the ufe of nature? prefent feats (9)
Are less than horrible imaginings.

My thought, whofe murther yet is but fantaftical,

prefent Fears

(9) Are less than horrible Imaginings.] Macbeth, while he is projecting the Murther, which he afterwards puts in Execution, is thrown into the most agonizing Affright at the Profpect of it: which foon recovering from, thus he reasons on the Nature of his Disorder. But Imaginings are fo far from being more or less than prefent Fears, that they are the fame Things under different Words. Shakespeare certainly wrote;

prefent Feats

Are less than horrible Imaginings.

i, e. When I come to execute this Murther, I fhall find it much less dreadful than my frighted Imagination now presents it to me. A Confideration drawn from the Nature of the Imagination.

Mr. Warburton. Macbeth, fpeaking again of this Murther in a subsequent Scene, uses the very fame Term;

I'm fettled, and bend up

Each corp'ral Agent to this terrible Feat.

And it is a Word, elsewhere, very familiar with our Poet. I'll only add, in aid of my Friend's Correction, that we meet with the very fame Sentiment, which our Poet here advances, in OVID's Epiftles;

Terror in his ipfo major folet effe periclo.

Paris Helenæ. ver. 349. And it is a Maxim' with Machiavel, that many Things are more fear'd afar off, than near at hand. E fono molte cofe che discosto paiono terribili, infopportabili, ftrani; & quando tu ti appreffi loro, le riescono humane, Jopportabili, domeftiche. Et però fi dice, che fono maggiori li Spaventi che i Mandragola. Atto 3. Sc. 11.

Mali.

Shakes

Shakes fo my fingle state of man, that Function
Is fmother'd in furmife; and nothing is,

But what is not.

Ban. Look, how our Partner's rapt!

Mach. If Chance will have me King, why, Chance may

crown me,

Without my flir.

Ban. New Honours, come upon him,

[Afide

Like our strange garments cleave not to their mould,
But with the aid of use.

Macb. Come what come may,

Time and the hour runs thro' the roughest day.

Ban. Worthy Macbeth, we ftay upon your leifure. Mach. Give me your favour: my dull brain was wrought With things forgot. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are registred where every day I turn

The leaf to read them

Let us tow'rd the Kings

Think, upon what hath chanc'd; and at more time,

(The Interim having weigh'd it,) let us fpeak Our free hearts each to other.

Ban. Very gladly.

Macb. 'Till then enough: come, friends.

[To Banquo.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to the Palace.

Flourish. Enter King, Malcolme, Donalbain, Lenox, and

King.

I

attendants.

S execution done on Cawdor yet?

Or not thofe in commiffion yet return'd?
Mal. My liege,

They are not yet come back. But I have spoke
With one that faw him die; who did report,
That very frankly he confefs'd his treasons;
Implor'd your Highness' pardon, and set forth
A deep repentance; nothing in his life,
Became him like the leaving it. He dy'd,
As one, that had been studied in his death,
To throw away the deareft thing he ow'd,

As

As 'twere a careless trifle.

King. There's no art,

To find the mind's conftruction in the face:
He was a gentleman, on whom I built
An abfolute truft.

Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Roffe, and Angus.

O worthieft Coufin!

The fin of my ingratitude e'en now

Was heavy on me. Thou'rt fo far before, (10)
That fwifteft wing of recompence is flow,

To overtake thee. Would thou'dft lefs deferv'd,
That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been mine! only I've left to fay,
More is thy due, than more than all can pay.
Mach. The fervice and the loyalty I owe,
In doing it, pays it felf. Your Highness' part
Is to receive our duties; and our duties (11)
Are to your Throne, and State, children and fervants;
Which do but what they fhould, by doing every thing
Safe tow'rd your love and honour.

King. Welcome hither:

(10) Thou art so far before,

That fwifteft Wind of Recompence is flow

To overtake thee. Thus the Editions by Mr. Rowe and Mr. Pope: whe ther for any Reafon, or purely by Chance, I cannot determine. I have chose the Reading of the more authentick Copies, Wing.

We meet with the fame Metaphor again in Troilus and Creffida.

But his Evafion, wing'd thus fwift with Scorn,.

Cannot outfly our Apprehenfion.

(11)

and our Duties

Are to your Throne, and State, Children and Servants;
Which do but what they should, by doing every thing

Safe towards your Love and Honour.] This may be Sense; but, f own, it gives me no very fatisfactory Idea: And tho' I have not difturb'd the Text, I cannot but embrace in my Mind the Conjecture of my ingenious Friend Mr. Warburton, who would read;

by doing every thing,

Fiefs towards your Love and Honour.

i. e. We hold our Duties to your Throne, &c. under an Obligation of doing every thing in our Power: as we hold our Fiefs, feuda) thofe Eftates and Tenures, which we have on the Terms of Homage and Service.

I have begun to plant thee, and will labour
To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
Thou haft no less deserv'd, and must be known
No lefs to have done fo: let me enfold thee,
And hold thee to my heart.
Ban. There if I grow,
The harveft is your own.
King. My plenteous joys,

Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves
In drops of forrow. Sons, kinfmen, Thanes,
And you whofe Places are the neareft, know,
We will establish our eftate upon

Our eldest Malcolm, whom we name hereafter
The Prince of Cumberland: which honour muft,
Not unaccompanied, inveft him only;

But figns of Nobleness, like ftars, fhall fhine
On all defervers. Hence to Inverness,

And bind us further to you.

Macb. The Reft is Labour, which is not us'd for you; I'll be my felf the harbinger, and make joyful

The Hearing of my wife with your approach;

So humbly take my leave.

King. My worthy Cawdor!

Macb. The Prince of Cumberland! -that is a step,

On which I muft fall down, or elfe o'er-leap,

For in my way it lyes. Stars, hide your fires!
Let not light fee my black and deep defires;
The eye wink at the hand! yet let that be,
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to fee.

[Afide.

King. True, worthy Banquo; he is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed;

It is a banquet to me. Let us after him,

Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome:
It is a peerless Kinsman.

[Exit.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

SCENE