And what will you do now? how will live? you Son. As birds do, mother. L. Macd. What, on worms and flies? Son. On what I get, I mean, and fo do they. L. Macd. Poor bird! thou'dit never fear the net, nor The pit-fall, nor the gin. [lime: Son. Why fhould I, mother? poor birds they are not fet for. My father is not dead, for all your faying. 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 fell again. L. Macd. Thou speak'ft with all thy wit, and yet, With wit enough for thee. Son. Was my father a traitor, mother? Son. What is a traitor? L. Macd. Why, one that fwears and lies. [i' faith L. Mard. Every one, that does fo, is a traitor, and must be hang'd. Son. And muft they all be hang'd, that fwear and lie? Son. Who muft hang them? L. Macd. Why, the honeft men. Son. Then the liars and fwearers are fools; for there are liars and fwearers 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 fign that I should quickly have a new father. L. Macd. Poor pratler! how thou talk'st ? Enter a Meffenger. Mef. Blefs you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect; I doubt, fome danger does approach you nearly. Be not found here; hence with your little ones. Which is too nigh your perfon. Heav'n preferve your L. Macd. Whither fhould I fly? I've done no harm. But I remember now, To fay, I'd done no harm?what are thefe faces - Mur. Where is your husband? L. Macd. I hope, in no place fo unfanctified, Where fuch as thou may' find him. Mur. He's a traitor. Son. Thou ly'ft, thou fhag-ear'd villain. Mur, What, you egg Young fry of treachery? Son. He 'as kill'd me, mother, [Stabbing him Run away, pray you. [Exit L. Macduff, crying murder: [Murderers purfue her. SCENE changes to the King of England's Palace. Enter Malcolm and Macduff. Mal. Weep our fad bofoms empty. ET us feek out fome defolate fhade, and there Macd. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal fword; and, like good men, As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Mal. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, What you have fpoke, it may be fo, perchance; You may deferve of him through me, and wifdom Macd. I am not treacherous, Mal. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. I crave your pardon : Macd. I've loft my hopes. Mal. Perchance, ev'n.there, where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and children? Thofe precious motives, thofe ftrong knots of love, Without leave-taking?-I pray you, Let not my jealoufies be your dishonours, But mine own fafeties: you may be rightly juft,. Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis fure,. For goodnefs dares not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs,, (36) I'm young, but fomething You may difcern of him through me, &c.] If the whole tanour of the context could not have convinced our blind editors, that we ought to read deferve inftead of difcern, (as I have corrected in the text,) yet Macduff s anfwer, fure, might have given them fome light,-.-I am not treacherous. There is another paffage, in which vice verfa the fame error has been committed upon the other word: K. Lear. (old 4to in 1608) an eye deferving, Thine honour from thy fuff 'ring. where the fenfe evidently demands, difcerning P.5 His His title is affear'd. Fare thee well, Lord: Mal. Be not offended; I fpeak not as in abfolute fear of you. Macd. What fhould he be ? Mal. It is myfelf I mean, in whom I know All the particulars of vice fo grafted, ftate That when they fhall be open'd, black Macbeth Macd. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a deyil more damn'd, Mal. I grant him bloody, Sudden, malicious, fmacking of ev'ry fin All continent impediments would o'er-bear, Macd. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne, And And fall of many Kings. But fear not yet And yet feem cold, the time you may fo hoodwink g As will to greatnefs dedicate themselves, Mal. With this, there grows, In my moft ill-compos'd affection, fuch Macd. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root (37). The fword of our flain Kings: yet do not fear; Of your mere own. All thefe are portable, (37) grows with more pernicious root Than fummer-feeming luft.] Mr. Warburton concurr'd with me in obferving, that fummer-feeming has no manner of sense: We there fore both corrected conjecturally, Than fummer-teeming luft. i. e. the paffion, which lafts no longer than the beat of life, and which goes off in the winter of age. Befides, the metaphor is much more: juft by our emendation; for fummer is the feafon in which weeds get、 strength, grow rank, and dilate themselves. 2 Henry VI: Now 'tis the fpring; And reeds are fhallow-rooted; fuffer them now, And they'll o'ergrow the garden. The fame image our author in another paffage conveys by an equi→ valent epithet, fummer-fwelling. 2. Gent. of Verona. Disdain to root the fummer-fwelling flow'r, And make rough winter everlastingly. Mal. |