Wife. Whether should I flye? I haue done no harme. But I remember now I am in this earthly world: where to do harme Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then (alas) Do I put vp that womanly defence, To say I haue done no harme? What are these faces? Enter Murtherers.

Mur. Where is your Husband? Wife. I hope in no place so vnsanctified, Where such as thou may'st finde him

Mur. He's a Traitor

Son. Thou ly'st thou shagge-ear'd Villaine

Mur. What you Egge? Yong fry of Treachery? Son. He ha's kill'd me Mother, Run away I pray you.

Exit crying Murther.

Scaena Tertia.

Enter Malcolme and Macduffe.

Mal. Let vs seeke out some desolate shade, & there Weepe our sad bosomes empty

Macd. Let vs rather Hold fast the mortall Sword: and like good men, Bestride our downfall Birthdome: each new Morne, New Widdowes howle, new Orphans cry, new sorowes Strike heauen on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like Syllable of Dolour

Mal. What I beleeue, Ile waile; What know, beleeue; and what I can redresse, As I shall finde the time to friend: I wil. What you haue spoke, it may be so perchance. This Tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you haue lou'd him well, He hath not touch'd you yet. I am yong, but something You may discerne of him through me, and wisedome To offer vp a weake, poore innocent Lambe T' appease an angry God

Macd. I am not treacherous

Malc. But Macbeth is. A good and vertuous Nature may recoyle In an Imperiall charge. But I shall craue your pardon: That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose; Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foule, would wear the brows of grace Yet Grace must still looke so

Macd. I haue lost my Hopes

Malc. Perchance euen there Where I did finde my doubts. Why in that rawnesse left you Wife, and Childe? Those precious Motiues, those strong knots of Loue, Without leaue-taking. I pray you, Let not my Iealousies, be your Dishonors, But mine owne Safeties: you may be rightly iust, What euer I shall thinke

Macd. Bleed, bleed poore Country, Great Tyrrany, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodnesse dare not check thee: wear y thy wrongs, The Title, is affear'd. Far thee well Lord, I would not be the Villaine that thou think'st, For the whole Space that's in the Tyrants Graspe, And the rich East to boot

Mal. Be not offended: I speake not as in absolute feare of you: I thinke our Country sinkes beneath the yoake, It weepes, it bleeds, and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I thinke withall, There would be hands vplifted in my right: And heere from gracious England haue I offer Of goodly thousands. But for all this, When I shall treade vpon the Tyrants head, Or weare it on my Sword; yet my poore Country Shall haue more vices then it had before, More suffer, and more sundry wayes then euer, By him that shall succeede

Macd. What should he be? Mal. It is my selfe I meane: in whom I know All the particulars of Vice so grafted, That when they shall be open'd, blacke Macbeth Will seeme as pure as Snow, and the poore State Esteeme him as a Lambe, being compar'd With my confinelesse harmes

Macd. Not in the Legions Of horrid Hell, can come a Diuell more damn'd In euils, to top Macbeth

Mal. I grant him Bloody, Luxurious, Auaricious, False, Deceitfull, Sodaine, Malicious, smacking of euery sinne That ha's a name. But there's no bottome, none In my Voluptuousnesse: Your Wiues, your Daughters, Your Matrons, and your Maides, could not fill vp The Cesterne of my Lust, and my Desire All continent Impediments would ore-beare That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth, Then such an one to reigne

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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