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SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and
swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.

LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do
for a father?

SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him; if you would not, it
were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.

LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st!
Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,
Though in your state of honor 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.
LADY MACDUFF. 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 defense,
To say I have done no harm -What are these faces?

Enter Murtherers.
FIRST MURTHERER. Where is your husband?

LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified
Where such as thou mayst find him.

FIRST MURTHERER. He's a traitor.
SON. Thou liest, thou shag-ear'd villain!

FIRST MURTHERER. What, you egg!
Stabs him.

Young fry of treachery!
SON. He has kill'd me, Mother.

Run away, I pray you! Dies.
Exit Lady Macduff, crying "Murther!"

Exeunt Murtherers, following her.
SCENE III.

England. Before the King's palace.
Enter Malcolm and Macduff.

MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.

MACDUFF. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men

Bestride our downfall'n 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 yell'd out

Like syllable of dolor.
MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wall;

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 loved 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.
MACDUFF. I am not treacherous.

MALCOLM. But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil

In an imperialcharge. But I shall crave your pardon;
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 grace,

Yet grace must still look so.
MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes.

MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my 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 dishonors,
But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just,

Whatever I shall think.
MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country!

Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dare not check thee. Wear thou thy wrongs;

The title is affeer'd. Fare thee well, lord.
I would not be the villain that thou think'st

For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp
And the rich East to boot.

MALCOLM. Be not offended;
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.

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,

When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country

Shall have more vices than it had before,
More suffer and more sundry ways than ever,

By him that shall succeed.
MACDUFF. What should he be?

MALCOLM. It is myself I mean, in whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted

That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state

Esteem him as a lamb, being compared
With my confineless harms.

MACDUFF. Not in the legions
Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd

In evils to top Macbeth.
MALCOLM. I grant him bloody,

Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin

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 cestern of my lust, and my desire

All continent impediments would o'erbear
That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth

Than such an one to reign.
MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance

In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,

And fall of many kings. But fear not yet
To take upon you what is yours. You may

Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty
And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.

We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you to devour so many

As will to greatnessdedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclined.

MALCOLM. With this there grows
In my most ill-composed affection such

A stanchless avarice that, were I King,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands,

Desire his jewels and this other's house,
And my more-having would be as a sauce

To make me hunger more, that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,

Destroying them for wealth.
MACDUFF. This avarice

Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root
Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been

The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will

Of your mere own. All these are portable,
With other graces weigh'd.

MALCOLM. 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
All unity on earth.

MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland!
MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak.

I am as I have spoken.
MACDUFF. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. O nation miserable!
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,

When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,
Since that the truest issue of thy throne

By his own interdiction stands accursed
And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father

Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee,
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,

Died every day she lived. Fare thee well!
These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself

Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast,
Thy hope ends here!

MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul

Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts
To thy good truth and honor. Devilish Macbeth

By many of these trains hath sought to win me
Into his power, and modestwisdom 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
Already at a point, was setting forth.

Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?

MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once
'Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.
MALCOLM. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth, I pray you?

DOCTOR. Ay, sir, there are a crew of wretched souls
That stay his cure. Their malady convinces

The great assay of art, but at his touch,
Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand,

They presently amend.


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