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,
-- 399 --
His mansion, and his titles, in a place
From whence himself does fly? he loves us not,
He wants the nat'ral touch; for the poor wren,
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, 8 note
when we are traitors,
And do not know ourselves: 9 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?
-- 400 --
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! Thoud'st never fear the net, nor lime:
The pit-fall, nor the gin.
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.
-- 401 --
L. Macd.
Poor pratler! 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.
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;
1 note
To do worship 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?
-- 402 --
Son.
He'as kill'd me, mother.
Run away, pray you.
[Exit L. Macduff, crying Murther; Murtherers pursue her.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
