Mal.
Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Mac^d.
Let us rather14Q0524
Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men,
Bestride our down-fall ^note 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 syllables ^note of dolour.

Mal.
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 lov'd him well;
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something
You may discern of ^note him through me: and wisdom,
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb,
To appease an angry god.

Mac^d.
I am not treacherous.

Mal.
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 brows of grace,
Yet grace must still look so.

Mac^d.
I have lost my hopes.

Mal.
Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts.
Why in that rawness left your wife, ^note and children, ^note
(Those precious motives, those strong knots of love)
Without leave-taking? I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,
But mine own safeties: you may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.

Mac^d.
Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dare ^note not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs,
The title is afeard!—Fare thee well, lord:
I would not be the villain that thou think'st,
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,
And the rich east to boot.

Mal.
Be not offended:
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think, our country sinks beneath the yoak;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds: I think, withal,
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
And here, from gracious England, have I offer
Of goodly thousands: But, for all this,
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before;
More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.

Mac^d.
What should he be?

Mal.
It is myself I mean: in whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted,
That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth

Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state
Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd
With my confineless harms.

Mac^d.
Not, in the legions
Of horrid hell, can come a devil more damn'd
In ills, to top Macbeth.

Mal.
I ^note grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaritious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking ^note of every sin
That has a name: But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
The cistern of my lust; and my desire
All continent impediments would o'er-bear,
That did oppose my will: Better Macbeth,
Than such a one to reign.

Mac^d.
Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny: it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,
And fall of many kings. But fear not yet
To take upon you what is yours: you may
Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,
And yet seem cold; the time you may so hoodwink:
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vultur in you, to devour so many
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclin'd.

Mal.
With this, there grows,
In my most ill-compos'd affection, such
A stanchless avarice, that, were I king,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands;
Desire his jewels, and this other's house:

And my more-having would be as a sauce,
To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good, and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.

Mac^d.
This avarice14Q0525
Sticks deeper; ^note grows with more pernicious root,
Than summer-teeming ^note lust: and it hath been
The sword of our slain kings: Yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foizons to fill up your will,
Of your meer own: All these are portable,
With other graces weigh'd.

Mal.
But I have none: The king-becoming graces,
As justice, verity, temp'rance, ^note stableness,
Bounty, perséverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
I have no relish of them; but abound
In the division of each several crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.

Mac^d.
O, Scotland, Scotland!

Mal.
If such a one be fit to govern, speak:
I am as I have spoken.

Mac^d.
Fit to govern!
No, not to live.—O nation miserable,
With an untitl'd tyrant bloody-scepter'd,
When shalt thou see thy wholesom days again?
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accurst ^note,
And does blaspheme his breed?—Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king; the queen, that bore thee,

Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,
Dy'd every day she lived. Fare thee well!
These evils,14Q0526 thou repeat'st upon thyself,
Have banish'd me from Scotland.—O my breast,
Thy hope ends here!

Mal.
Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Dev'lish Macbeth,
By many of these trains, hath sought to win me
Into his power: and modest wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous haste: But God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and
Unspeak mine own detraction; ^note here abjure
The taints and blames I lay'd upon myself,
For strangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to woman; ^note never was forsworn; ^note
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own;
At no time broke my faith; would not betray
The devil to his fellow; and delight
No less in truth, than life: my first false-speaking
Was this upon myself: What I am truly
Is thine, and my poor country's, to command:
Whither, indeed, before thy here ^note-approach,
Old Seyward, with ten thousand warlike men,
All ready ^note at a point ^note, was setting forth:
Now we'll together; And the chance, of goodness,
Be like our unwarranted ^note quarrel! Why are you silent?

Mac^d.
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once,
'Tis hard to reconcile. Enter a Doctor.

Mal.
Well, more anon.—Comes the king forth, I pray you?

Doc.
Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls,
That stay his cure: their malady convinces
The great assay of art; but, at his touch,
(Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand)
They presently amend.

Mal.
I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor.

Mac^d.
What's the disease he means?

Mal.
'Tis call'd, the evil:
A most miraculous work in this good king;
Which often, since my here-remain in England,
I have seen him do. How he sollicits heaven,
Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people,
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The meer despair of surgery, he cures;
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,
To the succeeding royalty he leaves
The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;
And sundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full of grace. Enter Rosse.

Mac^d.
See, who comes here?

Mal.
My countryman; but yet I know him not.

Mac^d.
My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.

Mal.
I know him now: Good God, betimes remove
The means ^note that makes us strangers!

Ros.
Sir, amen.

Mac^d.
Stands Scotland where it did?

Ros.
Alas, poor country;
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot

Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent ^note the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern extasy14Q0527: the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken.

Mac^d.
O, relation,
Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal.
What is the newest grief?

Ros.
That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;
Each minute teems a new one.

Mac^d.
How does my wife?

Ros.
Why, well.

Mac^d.
And all my children?

Ros.
Well too.

Mac^d.
The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?

Ros.
No; they were well at peace, when I did leave them.

Mac^d.
Be not a niggard of your speech; How goes't?

Ros.
When I came hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily born, there ran a rumour
Of many worthy fellows that were out;
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot:
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.

Mal.
Be it their comfort,
We are coming thither: gracious England hath
Lent us good Seyward, and ten thousand men;
An older and a better soldier, none

That Christendom gives out.

Ros.
'Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words,
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them. ^note

Mac^d.
What concern they?
The general cause? or is it a fee grief,
Due to some single breast?

Ros.
No mind, that's honest,
But in it shares some woe; though the main part
Pertains to you alone.

Mac^d.
If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

Ros.
Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound
That ever yet they heard.

Mac^d.
Hum! I guess at it.

Ros.
Your castle is surpriz'd; your wife, and babes,
Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
Were, on the quarry of these murther'd deer,
To add the death of you.

Mal.
Merciful heaven!—
What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

Mac^d.
My children too?

Ros.
Wife, children, servants, all
That could be found.

Mac^d.
And I must be from thence!—
My wife kill'd too?

Ros.
I have said.

Mal.
Be comforted:

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.

Mac^d.
He has no children.—All my pretty ones?
Did you say, all?—O hell-kite!—All?
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop?

Mal.
Dispute it like a man.

Mac^d.
I shall do so;
But I must also feel it as a man:
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.—Did heaven look on,
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
They were all strook for thee: naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now!

Mal.
Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

Mac^d.
O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue!—But, gentle heaven,
Cut short all intermission; front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself;
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven, forgive him too!

Mal.
This tune goes ^note manly.
Come, go we to the king; our power is ready,
Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may;
The night is long, that never finds the day. [Exeunt.

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