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L. Macd. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet
Son. Was my father a traitor, mother?
L. Macd. Every one that does so, is a traitor, and must be hang'd. Son. And must they all be hang’d, that swear and
230 1. Macd. Every one. Son. Who must hang them ? L. Macd. Why the honest men.
Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools : for there are liars and swearers enough to beat the honest men, and hang up them.
L. Macd. Now God help thee, poor monkey! buť 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.
250 I dare abide no longer.
[Exit Messenger, L. Macd. Whither should I fly? I have done no harın. 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 ?-What are these
Enter Murderers. Mur. Where is your husband?
L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified, 260 Where such as thou may'st find him.
Mur. He's a traitor.
Mur. What, you egg?
Son. He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you.
[Exit L. MACDUFF, crying Murder,
England. Enter Malcolm, and MACDUFF.
Mal. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and
there Weep our sad bosoms empty. Macd. Let us rather
270 Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men, Bestride our down-faln birthdom : Each new morn, New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yelld out Like syllable of dolour.
Mal. What I be ve, 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;
may deserve of him through me: and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb, To appease an angry god.
Macd. I am not treacherous,
Mal. But Macbeth is.
In an imperial charge, but I shall crave your pardon;
290 That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose: Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell : Though all things foul would wear the brows of
Macd. I have lost my hopes.
doubts, Why in that rawness left you wife, and child, (Those precious motives, those strong knots of
love) Without leave-taking ?-_I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, 300 But mine own safeties :-You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think.
Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country!
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
320 More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed.
Macd. What should he be ?
Mal. It is myself I mean : in whom I know
330 Of horrid hell, can come a deyil more damn'd, In evils, to top Macbeth.
Mal. I grant him bloody,
Macd. Boundless intemperance