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Son. What is a traitor?
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. Then the liars and swearers are fools : for there are liars and swearers enough to beat the honest men, and hang up them.
L. Macd. Now 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.
I dare abide no longer.
Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where, to do harm, Is often laudable; to do good, sometime, Accounted dangerous folly: Why then, alas! Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm? What are these
Mur. Where is
He's a traitor.
What, you egg? (stabbing him. Young fry of treachery? Son.
He has kill'd me, mother: I pray you. [Dies. Exit L. Macduff, crying murder, and pursued by the murderers.
A ROOM IN THE KING'S PALACE.
Enter Malcolm and Macduff. Mal. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and
there Weep our sad bosoms empty. Macd.
Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men,
Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom: 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. 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 inay 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 am young; but
may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb, To appease an angry god.
Macd. I am not treacherous.
But Macbeth is.
grace, Yet grace must still look so. Macd.
I have lost my hopes. Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find
Why in that rawness left you wife, and child, (Those precious motives, those strong knots of
Without leave-taking?-I pray you,
Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Be not offended:
What should he be?
Not in the legions
I grant him bloody,
With this, there grows;