Fife. Macduff’s castle.
He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.
You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear.
Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion and his titles in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not; He wants the natural touch: for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason.