Imágenes de páginas

Thunder. An Apparition of a child crowned, with

a tree in his hand, rises.
That rises like the issue of a king;
And wears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty?

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 high Dunsinane hill
Shall come against him.

[descends. Mac.

That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? sweet bodements!

good! 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. Mac. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know:Why sinks that caldron? and what noise is this?

[Hautboys. 1 Witch. Show! 2 Witch, Show! 3 Witch. Show!

All. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart.

[ocr errors]

Eight kings appear, and pass over the stage in order;

the last, with a glass in his hand: Banquo following. Mac. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo;

down! Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls:— And thy

Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first:-
A third is like the former:-Filthy hags!
Why do you show me this?—A fourth?—Start, eyes!
What! will the line stretch out to the crack of

Another yet?-A seventh?—I'll see no more:-
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass,
Which shows me many more; and some I see,
That twofold balls and treble scepters carry:
Horrible sight !-Ay, now, I see, 'tis true;
For the 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, cheer we up his sprights,
And show the best of our delights;
I'll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antique round:
That this great king may kindly say,
Our duties did his welcome

pay. [Musick. The Witches dance, and vanish. Mac. Where are they? Gone? Let this perni

cious hour

Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-
Come in, without there!

Enter Lenor.


What's your grace's will? Mac. Saw you the weird sisters? Len.

No, my lord. Mac. Came they not by you? Len.

No, indeed, my lord. Mac. 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. Mac.

Fled to England? Len. Ay, my good lord.

Mac. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook,
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 it thought and

The castle of Macduff I will surprise;
Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o‘the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace 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.




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 natural 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 coz', I pray you, school yourself: But, for your husband, He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows The fits o'the season. I dare not speak much fur

ther: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; 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. Mucd. 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, with worms and flies? Son. With 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. 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.

« AnteriorContinuar »