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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