SCENE II.
Enter Macbeth.
Macb.
How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?
What is't you do?
All.
A deed without a name.
Macb.
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 8 noteyesty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up;
Though bladed corn be lodg'd, 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
9 noteOf Nature's Germins tumble all together,
Even till destruction sicken, answer me
To what I ask you.
1 Witch.
Speak.
2 Witch.
Demand.
3 Witch.
We'll answer.
-- 449 --
1 Witch.
Say, if th' hadst rather hear it from our mouths,
Or from our masters?
Macb.
Call 'em. Let me see 'em.
1 Witch.
Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten
Her nine farrow; grease, that's sweaten
From the murtherer's gibbet, throw
Into the flame.
All.
Come high or low:
Thyself and office deftly show.
[Thunder.
Apparition of an armed head rises.
Macb.
Tell me, thou unknown Power—
1 Witch.
He knows thy thought.
Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
App.
Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! beware Macduff!
Beware the Thane of Fife—dismiss me—enough.
[Descends.
Macb.
What-e'er thou art, for thy good Caution, thanks.
Thou'st harp'd my fear aright. But one word more—
1 Witch.
He will not be commanded. Here's another
More potent than the first.
[Thunder.
Apparition of a bloody child rises.
App.
Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!
Macb.
Had I three ears, I'd hear thee.
App.
Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn
The pow'r of man; for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.
[Descends.
Macb.
Then live, Macduff; what need I fear of thee?
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 spight of thunder.
[Thunders.
-- 450 --
Apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.
What is this,
That rises like the issue of a King,
And wears upon his baby-brow 1 note
the round
And top of Sovereignty?
All.
Listen, but speak not.
App.
Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care,
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until
Great Birnam-wood to Dunsinane's high hill
Shall come against him.
[Descends.
Macb.
That will never be:
Who can impress the forest, bid the tree
Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet boadments! good!
2 note
Rebellious head rise never, 'till the wood
Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth
Shall live the lease of Nature, pay his breath
To time and mortal custom.—Yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing; tell me, if your Art
Can tell so much, shall Banquo's issue ever
Reign in this Kingdom?
All.
Seek to know no more.
[The Cauldron sinks into the Ground.
Macb.
I will be satisfy'd. Deny me this,
And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know,
-- 451 --
Why sinks that cauldron, and what noise is this.
[Hautboys.
1 Witch.
Shew!
2 Witch.
Shew!
3 Witch.
Shew!
All.
Shew his eyes, and grieve his heart.
Come like shadows, so depart.
[Eight Kings appear and pass over in order, and Banquo; the last, with a glass in his hand.
Macb.
Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo. Down!
3 noteThy crown does sear mine eye-balls.—4 note
And thy air,
Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first—
A third is like the former—Filthy hags!
Why do you shew me this?—A fourth?—Start, eye!
What! will the line stretch out to th'crack of Doom?—
Another yet?—A seventh! I'll see no more—
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass,
Which shews me many more; and some I see,
5 noteThat twofold balls and treble scepters carry.
Horrible sight! nay, now, I see, 'tis true;
-- 452 --
For 6 notethe blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me,
And points at them for his. What, is this so?
1 Witch.
Ay, Sir, all this is so. But why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
Come, sisters, chear we up his sprights,
And shew the best of our delights;
I'll charm the Air to give a Sound,
While you perform your antick round,
That this great King may kindly say,
Our duties did his welcome pay.
[Musick.
The witches dance and vanish.
Macb.
Where are they? gone?—Let this pernicious hour
Stand ay accursed in the kalendar.
Come in, without there!
Enter Lenox.
Len.
What's your Grace's will?
Macb.
Saw you the weyward sisters?
Len.
No, my Lord.
Macb.
Came they not by you?
Len.
No, indeed, my Lord.
Macb.
Infected be the air whereon they ride,
And damn'd all those that trust them! I did hear
The galloping of horse. Who was't came by?
Len.
'Tis two or three, my Lord, that bring you word,
Macduff is fled to England.
Macb.
Fled to England?
Len.
Ay, my good Lord.
-- 453 --
Macb. [Aside.]
7 noteTime, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits.
The flighty purpose never is o'er-took,
Unless the deed go with it. From this moment,
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand. And even now
To crown my thoughts with acts, be't thought and done,
The Castle of Macduff I will surprise,
Seize upon Fife, give to the edge o'th' 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.
But no more sights.—Where are these gentlemen?
Come bring me where they are.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Changes to Macduff's Castle at Fife.
Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Rosse.
L. Macd.
What had he done, to make him fly the Land?
Rosse.
You must have patience, Madam.
L. Macd.
He had none;
His flight was madness; when our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors.
Rosse.
You know not,
Whether it was his wisdom, or his fear.
L. Macd.
Wisdom? to leave his wife, to leave his babes,
His mansion, and his titles, in a place
From whence himself does fly. He loves us not,
He wants the 8 notenat'ral touch; for the poor wren,
-- 454 --
The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
All is the fear, and nothing is the love;
As little is the wisdom, where the flight
So runs against all reason.
Rosse.
My dearest Cousin,
I pray you, school yourself; but for your husband,
He's noble, wise, judicious, and best knows
The fits o' th' season. I dare not speak much further,
But cruel are the times, 9 note
when we are traitors,
And do not know ourselves: 1 note
when we hold rumour
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear;
But float upon a wild and violent sea
Each way, and move—I take my leave of you;
Shall not be long but I'll be here again:
Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward
To what they were before. My pretty Cousin,
Blessing upon you!
L. Macd.
Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless.
Rosse.
I am so much a fool, should I stay longer,
It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort.
I take my leave at once.
[Exit Rosse.
L. Macd.
Sirrah, your father's dead,
And what will you do now? how will you live?
Son.
As birds do, Mother.
L. Macd.
What, on worms and flies?
Son.
On what I get, I mean; and so do they.
L. Macd.
Poor bird! Thou'dst never fear the net, nor lime,
The pit-fall, nor the gin.
-- 455 --
Son.
Why should I, Mother? poor birds they are
not set for.
My father is not dead for all your Saying.
L. Macd.
Yes, he is dead; how wilt thou do for a
father?
Son.
Nay, how will you do for a husband?
L. Macd.
Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.
Son.
Then you'll buy 'em to sell again.
L. Macd.
Thou speak'st with all thy wit, and yet i'faith,
With wit enough for thee.
Son.
Was my father a traitor, mother?
L. Macd.
Ay, that he was.
Son.
What is a traitor?
L. Macd.
Why, one that swears and lies.
Son.
And be all traitors, that do so?
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
lie?
L. 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 enow to beat the honest men, and
hang up them.
L. Macd.
God help thee, poor monkey! But 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.
Mes.
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;
-- 456 --
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;
2 note
To do worse to you were fell cruelty,
Which is too nigh your person. Heav'n preserve you!
I dare abide no longer.
[Exit Messenger.
L. Macd.
Whither should I fly?
I've done no harm. But I remember now,
I'm in this earthly world, where to do harm
Is often laudable; to do good, sometime
Accounted dang'rous folly. Why then, alas!
Do I put up that womanly defence,
To say, I'd done no harm?—What are these faces?
Enter Murtherers.
Mur.
Where is your husband?
L. Macd.
I hope, in no place so unsanctified,
Where such as thou may'st find him.
Mur.
He's a traitor.
Son.
Thou ly'st, thou shag-ear'd villain.
Mur.
What, you egg?
[Stabbing him.
Young fry of treachery?
Son.
He'as kill'd me, mother.
Run away, pray you.
[Exit L. Macduff, crying Murther; Murtherers pursue her.
-- 457 --
SCENE IV.
Changes to the King of England's Palace.
Enter Malcolm and Macduff.
Mal.
Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.
Macd.
3 note
Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men,
4 noteBestride our down-faln birthdom. Each new morn,
New widows howl, new orphans cry; new sorrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
-- 458 --
As if it felt with Scotland, 5 note
and yell'd out
Like syllables of dolour.
Mal.
What I believe, 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'm young; but something
6 note
You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb,
T' appease an angry God.
Macd.
I am not treacherous.
Mal.
But Macbeth is.
7 note
A good and virtuous nature may recoil
In an imperial Charge. I crave your pardon:
That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose;
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell,
8 noteThough all things foul would bear the brows of Grace,
Yet Grace must look still so.
Macd.
I've lost my hopes.
-- 459 --
Mal.
Perchance, ev'n there, where I did find my doubts.
9 noteWhy in that rawness left you wife and children,
Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,
Without leave-taking?—I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,
But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.
Macd.
Bleed, bleed, poor Country!
Great Tyranny, lay thou thy Basis sure,
For goodness dares not check thee!—* noteWear thou thy wrongs—
1 noteHis title is affear'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.
Mal.
Be not offended;
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think, our country sinks beneath the yoak;
It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds. I think withal,
There would be hands up-lifted 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.
Macd.
What should he be?
Mal.
2 noteIt is myself I mean, in whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted,
-- 460 --
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 compar'd
With my confineless harms.
Macd.
Not in the legions
Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd,
In Evils to top Macbeth.
Mal.
I grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
3 note
Sudden, malicious, smacking of ev'ry 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 cistern of my lust; and my desire
All continent impediments would o'er-bear,
That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth,
Than such an one to reign.
Macd.
Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
Th' 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've willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you to devour so many,
As will to Greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclin'd.
Mal.
With this, there grows,
In my most ill-compos'd 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
-- 461 --
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.
Macd.
This Avarice
Sticks deeper; 4 note
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 5 notefoysons, to fill up your will,
Of your mere own. All these are portable,
With other Graces weigh'd.
Mal.
But I have none; the King-becoming graces,
As justice, verity, temp'rance, stableness,
Bounty, persev'rance, 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.
Macd.
Oh Scotland! Scotland!
Mal.
If such a one be fit to govern, speak.
I am as I have spoken.
Macd.
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 accurst,
And does blaspheme his Breed. Thy royal father
Was a most sainted King; the Queen, that bore thee,
Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,
Dy'd every day she liv'd. Oh, fare thee well!
-- 462 --
These evils, thou repeat'st upon thyself,
Have banish'd me from Scotland. Oh, my breast!
Thy hope ends here.
Mal.
Macduff, this noble Passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wip'd the black scruples; reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Develish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath sought to win me
Into his pow'r, and modest wisdom 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,
6 note
All ready at a point, was setting forth.
Now we'll together, 7 note
and the chance of goodness
-- 463 --
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?
Macd.
Such welcome, and unwelcome things at once,
'Tis hard to reconcile.
SCENE V.
Enter a Doctor.
Mal.
Well; more anon.—Comes the King forth, I pray you?
Doct.
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.
[Exit.
Mal.
I thank you, Doctor.
Macd.
What's the Disease he means?
Mal.
'Tis call'd the Evil;
A most miraculous work in this good King,
Which often since my here remain in England
I've seen him do. How he sollicits heav'n,
Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people,
All swoln and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures,
Hanging a golden Stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers. 8 note
And 'tis spoken,
-- 464 --
To the succeeding Royalty he leaves
The healing Benediction. With this strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of Prophecy;
And sundry blessings hang about his Throne,
That speak him full of Grace.
SCENE VI.
Enter Rosse.
Macd.
See, who comes here!
Mal.
My countryman; but yet I know him not.
Macd.
My ever-gentle Cousin, welcome hither.
Mal.
I know him now. Good God betimes remove
The means that make us strangers!
Rosse.
Sir, Amen.
Macd.
Stands Scotland where it did?
Rosse.
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
9 note
A modern ecstasie; the dead man's Knell
Is there scarce ask'd, for whom; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps;
Dying, or ere they sicken.
Macd.
Oh, relation
Too nice, and yet too true!
-- 465 --
Mal.
What's the newest grief?
Rosse.
That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker,
Each minute teems a new one.
Macd.
How does my wife?
Rosse.
Why, well.—
Macd.
And all my children?
Rosse.
Well too.—
Macd.
The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?
Rosse.
No; they were well at peace, when I did leave 'em.
Macd.
Be not a niggard of your speech. How goes it?
Rosse.
When I came hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour
Of many worthy fellows that were out,
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I saw the Tyrant's Power a-foot.
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, and make women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.
Mal.
Be't their comfort
We're coming thither. Gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men,
An older, and a better soldier, none
That Christendom gives out.
Rosse.
Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words,
That would be howl'd out in the desart air,
Where Hearing should not catch them.
Macd.
What concern they?
The gen'ral cause? or is it a * notefee-grief,
Due to some single breast?
Rosse.
No mind, that's honest,
But in it shares some woe; though the main part
Pertains to you alone.
Macd.
If it be mine,
-- 466 --
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
Rosse.
Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest Sound,
That ever yet they heard.
Macd.
Hum! I guess at it.
Rosse.
Your Castle is surpriz'd, your wife and babes
Savagely slaughter'd; to relate the manner,
Were on the Quarry of these murther'd deer
To add the death of you.
Mal.
Merciful heav'n!
What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give sorrow words; the grief, that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Macd.
My children too!—
Rosse.
Wife, children, servants, all that could be found.
Macd.
And I must be from thence! my wife kill'd too!
Rosse.
I have said.
Mal.
Be comforted.
Let's make us med'cines of our great Revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.
Macd.
1 noteHe has no children.—All my pretty ones?
Did you say, all? What, all? Oh, hell-kite! all?
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop?
Mal.
Dispute it like a Man.
Macd.
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 heav'n look on,
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell Slaughter on their souls. Heav'n rest them now!
Mal.
Be this the whetstone of your sword, let grief
-- 467 --
Convert to wrath. Blunt not the heart, enrage it.
Macd.
O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle heav'n!
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,
Then heav'n forgive him too!
Mal.
This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the King, our Power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the Powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may;
The night is long, that never finds the day.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
