« AnteriorContinuar »
Thunder. An Apparition of a child crowned, with
a tree in his hand, rises.
Listen, but speak not.
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.
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
1 Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so:-But why
pay. [Musick. The Witches dance, and vanish. Mac. Where are they? Gone? Let this perni
Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-
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:
cool: But no more sights !-Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt.
A ROOM IN MACDUFF'S CASTLE.
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,
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
Son. Was my father a traitor, mother?