ROSS.
My dearest coz,
I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband,
He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows
The fits o’ th’ season. I dare not speak much further:
But cruel are the times, when we are traitors,
And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear,
But float upon a wild and violent sea
Each way and move—I take my leave of you:
Shall not be long but I’ll be here again.
Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward
To what they were before.—My pretty cousin,
Blessing upon you!
LADY MACDUFF.
Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless.
ROSS.
I am so much a fool, should I stay longer,
It would be my disgrace and your discomfort:
I take my leave at once.
[Exit.]
LADY MACDUFF.
Sirrah, your father’s dead.
And what will you do now? How will you live?
SON.
As birds do, mother.
LADY MACDUFF.
What, with worms and flies?
SON.
With what I get, I mean; and so do they.
LADY MACDUFF.
Poor bird! thou’dst never fear the net nor lime,
The pit-fall nor the gin.
SON.
Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for.
My father is not dead, for all your saying.