Macbeth Page #5

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Augurs and understood relations have by

magot-pies and choughs and rooks

brought forth the secret'st man of blood.

What is the night?

Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

How say'st thou, that Macduff denies

his person at our great bidding?

Did you send to him, sir?

I hear it by the way; but I will send.

There's not a one of them but in his house

I keep a servant fee'd.

More shall they speak;

for now I am bent to know, by the worst means, the worst.

How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags!

I conjure you, by that which you profess.

Howe'er you come to know it, answer me.

Though you untie the winds and

let them fight against the churches;

Though the yesty waves confound and

swallow navigation up;

Though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down;

Though castles topple on their warders' heads;

Though palaces and pyramids do slope

their heads to their foundations;

Though the treasure of nature's germens tumble all together,

even till destruction sicken;

Answer me!

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!

beware Macduff;

Macduff, beware Macduff!

He's fled to England.

But I'll reach him still; give to the edge o' the sword his wife, his babes,

and all unfortunate souls that trace him in his line.

No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do

before this purpose cool.

Macbeth! be bloody, bold, and resolute;

laugh to scorn the power of man;

for none of woman born shall harm Macbeth.

Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until

Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill.

shall come against him.

That will never be.

Who can impress the forest, bid the tree

unfix his earth-bound root?

Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee?

Beware Macduff! Beware Macduff!

But yet I'll make assurance double sure,

and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.

That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,

and sleep in spite of thunder.

Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be

til Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

Sweet bodements! good!

Rebellion's head, rise never

till the wood of Birnam rise,

and our high-placed Macbeth shall

live the lease of nature,

pay his breath to time and mortal custom.

What, is it so?

Ay, sir, all this is so.

Your father's dead, my child; And what will you do now?

My father is not dead, for all your saying.

Yes, he is dead; how wilt thou do for a father?

Nay, how will you do for a husband?

Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.

Then you'll buy 'em to sell again.

Thou speak'st with all thy wit: and yet, i' faith,

with wit enough for thee.

Was my father a traitor, mother?

Ay, that he was.

What is a traitor?

Why, one that swears and lies.

And be all traitors that do so?

Every one that does so is a traitor,

and must be hanged.

And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?

Every one.

/Who must hang them?

Why, the honest men.

Then the liars and swearers are fools,

for there are liars and swearers enow to beat

the honest men and hang up them.

Now, God help thee, poor monkey!

How wilt thou do for a father?

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.

Poor prattler, how thou talk'st!

Bless you, fair dame!

I doubt some danger does approach you nearly.

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!

Whither should I fly?

I must abide no longer.

I have done no harm.

Where is your husband?

I hope, in no place so unsanctified

where such as thou mayst find him.

He's a traitor.

Thou liest!

He has kill'd me, mother!

Nought's had, all's spent,

where our desire is got without content.

I am in blood stepp'd in so far that,

should I wade no more,

Returning were as tedious as go o'er:

'Tis safer to be that which we destroy

than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

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 dolour.

I am not treacherous, but Macbeth is.

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.

See who comes here.

Good God, betimes remove the means

that makes us strangers!

Sirs, amen.

Stands Scotland where it did?

Alas, poor country! Almost afraid to know itself.

It cannot be call'd our mother, but our grave;

where nothing, but who knows nothing,

is once seen to smile.

where sighs and groans and shrieks

that rend the air are made, not mark'd;

where violent sorrow seems a modern ecstasy;

the dead man's knell is there scarce ask'd for who;

and good men's lives expire

before the flowers in their caps,

dying or ere they sicken.

How does my wife?

Why, well.

And all my children?

Well too.

The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?

No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.

But not a niggard of your speech: how goes't?

Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland

would create soldiers,

make our women fight, to doff their dire distresses.

Be't their comfort. We are coming thither.

Gracious England hath lent us good Siward

and ten thousand men.

An older and a better soldier none

that Christendom gives out.

Would I could answer this comfort with the like!

But I have words that would be howl'd out

in the desert air,

where hearing should not latch them.

What concern they?

The general cause?

No mind that's honest but in it shares some woe;

though the main part pertains to you alone.

Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,

that shall possess them with the heaviest sound

that ever yet they heard.

I guess at it.

Your castle is surprised.

/No!

Your wife and babes savagely slaughter'd.

Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak

whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.

My children too?

Wife, children, servants, all that could be found.

And I must be from thence!

My wife kill'd too?

Be comforted:

Let's make us medicines of our great revenge,

to cure this deadly grief.

He has no children.

All my pretty ones? Did you say "all"?

O hell-kite! All?

What, all my pretty chickens and their dam

at one fell swoop?

Dispute it like a man.

I shall do so. But I must also feel it as a man.

I cannot but remember such things were, that were most precious to me.

Did heaven look on, and would not take their part?

Be this the whetstone of your sword.

Let grief convert to anger!

Blunt not the heart, enrage it!

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes

and braggart with my tongue!

But, gentle heavens, 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!

This tune goes manly.

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