University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII.

Macbeth, Lady, and Baudron.
MACBETH.
How now is this, if thou canst see afar
The forecast shadows of events, that thus
The pamper'd Southrons, with the fierce Macduff,
Invade our borders, and not I inform'd?

BAUDRON.
My gracious lord; such things particular,
In the vague range of your old slave's dim knowledge,
Have no precursor but the vulgar cry,
Which long and loud hath rumour'd preparation.

LADY.
His boding then is like the raven's croak;
A dismal gibber that but daunts the heart,
Without instructing where the danger lies.—
Send him away—we are ourselves, old man,
Deep-read in this lugubrious lore of fancy.

BAUDRON.
Fain would I shun these honour'd conf'rences,
But still his majesty commands me back.
If 'tis your highness' will, let me retire;
And in my lonely hazel-curtain'd cell,
Forget the court in charity to man.
O! holy Nature, thee I do acquit
Of all the foul that stains thy minion here:
How fair and nobly hast thou done thy part!
How bright and glorious shines the gen'rous sun!
How rich and soft earth's carpeting of flowers!
How fresh and joyous to the corp'ral sense,
The all-embracing dalliance of the air,
Contrasted with the base device of courts,
The dire cabal and mid-night work of blood.

MACBETH.
Traitor! what would'st thou? Darest thou jibe at us?

LADY.
Tut, my good lord, you do mistake the man.
He spoke but in a fit of calenture,
Th'impassion'd poetry of fond desire.—
Baudron, at night, I would converse with thee,
And learn the names by which to know the stars,
That, glittering, course the ocean of the sky;
And whence that radient messenger hath come,
Which, nightly, in our zenith vault, is seen
With unknown splendour, firing half the heavens.
Till then, adieu.—Oh! shame to be so stirr'd.