| 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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