And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live;
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,
And sleep in spite of thunder.-What is this,
Thunder. 3d Apparition, a Child crowned, with a
tree in his hand.

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.

[Descends.

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

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

A show of eight Kings, and BANQUO last. Macb. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down!

Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls:-and thy hair,
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; and some I see,
That two-fold balls and treble sceptres carry.
Horrible sight!-Now, I see, 'tis true;

For the blood-boltered 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 sprites,
And show the best of our delights.
I'll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antic round;
That this great king may kindly say,
Our duties did his welcome pay.

[Music. The Witches dance, and vanish. Macb. Where are they? Gone? - Let this per

nicious hour

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.

To what they were before. My pretty cousin,
Blessing upon you!

L. Macd. 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. [Erit ROSSE. L. Macd. Sirrah, your father's dead :

And what will you do now? How will you live? Son. As birds do, mother.

L. Macb. 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

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.

Son. What is a traitor?

L. Macd. Why, one that swears and lies.
Son. And be all traitors that do so?

L. Macd. Every one that does so is a traitor, Son. And must they all be hanged, that swear and lie?

L. Macd. Every one.

Son. Who must hang them?

L. Macd. Why, the honest men.

Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools; for there are liars and swearers enow 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!

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,

Yet grace must still look so.
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.

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

there

Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Macd.

Let us rather