Forres. A Room in the Palace. |
| |
Enter LENNOX and another Lord. |
| Len. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, |
| Which can interpret further: only, I say, |
| Things have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan |
| Was pitied of Macbeth: marry, he was dead: |
| And the right-valiant Banquo walk'd too late; |
| Whom, you may say, if 't please you, Fleance kill'd, |
| For Fleance fled: men must not walk too late. |
| Who cannot want the thought how monstrous |
| It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain |
| To kill their gracious father? damned fact! |
| How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight |
| In pious rage the two delinquents tear, |
| That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? |
| Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; |
| For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive |
| To hear the men deny 't. So that, I say, |
| He has borne all things well; and I do think |
| That, had he Duncan's sons under his key,— |
| As, an 't please heaven, he shall not,—they should find |
| What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. |
| But, peace! for from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd |
| His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, |
| Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell |
| Where he bestows himself? |
| Lord. The son of Duncan, |
| From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, |
| Lives in the English court, and is receiv'd |
| Of the most pious Edward with such grace |
| That the malevolence of fortune nothing |
| Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff |
| Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid |
| To wake Northumberland and war-like Siward: |
| That, by the help of these—with him above |
| To ratify the work—we may again |
| Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, |
| Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, |
| Do faithful homage and receive free honours; |
| All which we pine for now. And this report |
| Hath so exasperate the king that he |
| Prepares for some attempt at war. |
| Len. Sent he to Macduff? |
| Lord. He did: and with an absolute, 'Sir, not I,' |
| The cloudy messenger turns me his back, |
| And hums, as who should say, 'You'll rue the time |
| That clogs me with this answer.' |
| Len. And that well might |
| Advise him to a caution to hold what distance |
| His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel |
| Fly to the court of England and unfold |
| His message ere he come, that a swift blessing |
| May soon return to this our suffering country |
| Under a hand accurs'd! |
| Lord. I'll send my prayers with him! [Exeunt. |
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