liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? If he were dead, you'ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st! Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm? What are these faces? Where is your husband? I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. He's a traitor. Thou liest, thou shag-hair'd villain! What, you egg! Young fry of treachery! He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you! Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out Like syllable of dolour. What I believe I'll wail, What know believe, and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well. He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb To appease an angry god. I am not treacherous. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose: Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell; Though all things foul would wear the