Part 18

Wife. What with Wormes, and Flyes? Son. With what I get I meane, and so do they

Wife. Poore Bird, Thou'dst neuer Feare the Net, nor Lime, The Pitfall, nor the Gin

Son. Why should I Mother? Poore Birds they are not set for: My Father is not dead for all your saying

Wife. Yes, he is dead: How wilt thou do for a Father? Son. Nay how will you do for a Husband? Wife. Why I can buy me twenty at any Market

Son. Then you'l by 'em to sell againe

Wife. Thou speak'st withall thy wit, And yet I'faith with wit enough for thee

Son. Was my Father a Traitor, Mother? Wife. I, that he was

Son. What is a Traitor? Wife. Why one that sweares, and lyes

Son. And be all Traitors, that do so

Wife. Euery one that do's so, is a Traitor, And must be hang'd

Son. And must they all be hang'd, that swear and lye? Wife. Euery one

Son. Who must hang them? Wife. Why, the honest men

Son. Then the Liars and Swearers are Fools: for there are Lyars and Swearers enow, to beate the honest men, and hang vp them

Wife. Now God helpe thee, poore Monkie: But how wilt thou do for a Father? Son. If he were dead, youl'd weepe for him: if you would not, it were a good signe, that I should quickely haue a new Father

Wife. Poore pratler, how thou talk'st? Enter a Messenger.

Mes. Blesse you faire Dame: I am not to you known, Though in your state of Honor I am perfect; I doubt some danger do's approach you neerely. If you will take a homely mans aduice, Be not found heere: Hence with your little ones To fright you thus. Me thinkes I am too sauage: To do worse to you, were fell Cruelty, Which is too nie your person. Heauen preserue you, I dare abide no longer.

Exit Messenger

Wife. Whether should I flye? I haue done no harme. But I remember now I am in this earthly world: where to do harme Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then (alas) Do I put vp that womanly defence, To say I haue done no harme? What are these faces? Enter Murtherers.

Mur. Where is your Husband? Wife. I hope in no place so vnsanctified, Where such as thou may'st finde him

Mur. He's a Traitor

Son. Thou ly'st thou shagge-ear'd Villaine

Mur. What you Egge? Yong fry of Treachery? Son. He ha's kill'd me Mother, Run away I pray you.

Exit crying Murther.

Scaena Tertia.

Enter Malcolme and Macduffe.

Mal. Let vs seeke out some desolate shade, & there Weepe our sad bosomes empty

Macd. Let vs rather Hold fast the mortall Sword: and like good men, Bestride our downfall Birthdome: each new Morne, New Widdowes howle, new Orphans cry, new sorowes Strike heauen on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like Syllable of Dolour

Mal. What I beleeue, Ile waile; What know, beleeue; and what I can redresse, As I shall finde the time to friend: I wil. What you haue spoke, it may be so perchance. This Tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you haue lou'd him well, He hath not touch'd you yet. I am yong, but something You may discerne of him through me, and wisedome To offer vp a weake, poore innocent Lambe T' appease an angry God