THIRD APPARITION, a Child crowned, with a Tree in his Hand, rises.

What is this,

That rises like the issue of a king;

And wears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty?

All. Listen, but speak not to't.

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.

Macb. That will never be:

Who can impress the forest; bid the tree

[Descends.

Unfix his earth-bound root? sweet bodements! good!

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.

Macb. I will be satisfy'd: deny me this,

And an eternal curse fall on you!—

Let me know,

[Thunder.-The Cauldron sinks.

[4 Groan.

Why sinks that cauldron ?—

And what noise is this?

1 Witch. Show!

2 Witch. Show!

3 Witch. Show!

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

[Apparitions of Eight Kings, the last with a Glass in his Hand; and BANQUO, pass

across.

Macb. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down!

Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls:-And thy air,
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 doom?

Another yet?-A seventh ?—I'll see no more:
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass,
Which shows me many more:—

Enter BANQUO.-The WITCHES vanish.

Horrible sight!-Now, I see, 'tis true;

For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.-What? is this so?--Where are they? Gone?-Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!

Come in, without there!

Enter SEYTON.

Sey. What's your grace's will?
Macb. Saw you the weird sisters?
Sey. No, my lord.

Macb. Came they not by you ?
Sey. No, indeed, my lord.

Macb. 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!

Sey. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word,

Macduff is fled to England.
Macb. Fled to England?

Sey. Ay, my good lord.

Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits : The flighty purpose never is o'er-took,

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

done:

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 him in his line. No boasting like a fool;

This deed I'll do, before this

Where are these gentlemen?

purpose cool.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Country,-in Englund.

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 syllables of dolour.

Mal. What you have spoke, it may be so, per

chance.

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.

Macd. I am not treacherous.

Mal. But Macbeth is.

A good and virtuous nature may recoil,

In an imperial charge.

Macd. I have lost my hopes.

Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts.

Why in that rawness left you wife, and child, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking?-I pray you,

Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,

But mine own safeties:-You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think.

Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dares not check thee !—
Fare thee well, lord:

I would not be the villain that thou think'st,
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,
And the rich East to boot.

Mal. Be not offended:

I speak not as in absolute fear of

you.
I think, our country sinks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds: I think, withal,
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
And here, from gracious England, have I offer
Of goodly thousands: But, for all this,
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before;
More suffer and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.

Macd. What should he be?

Mal. It is myself I mean: in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted,

That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd

With my confineless harms.

Macd. Not in the legions

Of horrid hell, can come a devil more damn'd
In evils, to top Macbeth.

Mal. I grant him bloody,

Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful;
But there's no bottom, none,

In my voluptuousness.

Nay, had I power, I should

Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.

Macd. Oh Scotland! Scotland!

Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak.
Macd. Fit to govern!

No, not to live.-O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,
Since that the truest issue of thy throne

By his own interdiction stands accurs'd,
And does blaspheme his breed?-Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king; the queen, that bore thee,
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,

Dy'd every day she lived. Fare thee well!
These evils, thou repeat'st upon thyself,

Have banish'd me from Scotland.-O, my breast,
Thy hope ends here!

Mal. Macduff, this noble passion,

Child of integrity, hath from my soul

Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth,
By many of these trains, hath sought to win me
Into his power; and modest wisdom plucks me
From over credulous haste: But Heaven above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and
Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself,
For strangers to my nature.

What I am truly,

Is thine, and my poor country's, to command:
Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach,
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men,