That which you are, my thoughts cannot tranfpofe; Angels are bright ftill, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of Grace, Yet Grace muft look ftill fo.

Macd. I've loft my hopes.

Mal. Perchance, ev'n there, where I did find my
doubts.

Why in that rawness left you wife and children,
Thofe precious motives, thofe ftrong knots of love,
Without leave-taking ?· I pray you,

Let not my jealousies be your

dishonours,

But mine own fafeties: you may be rightly just,
Whatever I fhall think.

Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor Country!

Great Tyranny, lay thou thy Bafis fure,

For goodness dares not check thee! Wear thou thy

wrongs,

His title is affear'd. Fare thee well, lord:

I would not be the villain that thou think'ft,
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grafp,
And the rich Eaft to boot.

Mal. Be not offended;

I fpeak not as in abfolute fear of you.
I think, our country finks 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 up-lifted in my Right:
And here from gracious England have I Offer
Of goodly thoufands. But for all this,

When I fhall tread upon the Tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my fword, yet my poor Country
Shall have more vices than it had before ;
More fuffer, and more fundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.

Macd. What fhould he be ?

Mal. It is my self I mean, in whom I know
All the particulars of vice fo grafted,

That, when they fhall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will feem as pure as fnow, and the poor State
Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd

With my confineless harms.

Macd. Not in the legions

Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd,
In Evils to top Macbeth.

Mal. I grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, falfe, deceitful,

Sudden, malicious, fmacking of ev'ry fin
That has a name. But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuoufnefs: your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
The ciftern of my luft; and my defire

All continent impediments would o'er-bear,
That did oppofe my will. Better Macbeth,
Than fuch an one to reign.

Macd. Boundless intemperance

In nature is a tyranny; it hath been

Th' 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 fpacious plenty,

And yet feem cold, the time you may fo hoodwink:
We've willing dames enough; there cannot be

That Vulture in you to devour fo many,
As will to Greatnefs dedicate themselves,
Finding it fo inclin'd.

Mal. With this, there grows,

In my moft ill-compos'd affection, fuch
A ftanchless Avarice, that, were I King,
I fhould cut off the Nobles for their lands;
Defire his jewels, and this other's house;
And my more-having would be as a fawce
To make me hunger more; that I fhould forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Deftroying them for wealth.

Macd. This Avarice

Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root (23)

23

-grows with more pernicious Root

Than

Than Summer-feeming Luft.] Mr. Warburton concurr'd with me in observing, that Summer-seeming has no Manner of

Sease:

Than fummer-teeming luft; and it hath been
The Sword of our flain Kings: yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foyfons, to fill up your will,

Of your mere own. All these are portable,
With other Graces weigh'd.

;

Macd. But I have none; the King-becoming graces, As juftice, verity, temp'rance, ftableness, Bounty, perfev'rance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude I have no relish of them,. but abound In the divifion of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I fhould Pour the sweet milk of Concord into Hell, Uproar the univerfal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

Macd. Oh Scotland! Scotland!

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

Macd. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. Ŏ nation miserable,

With an untitled tyrant, bloody-fceptred!

When shalt thou fee thy wholefome days again?
Since that the trueft Iffue of thy Throne

By his own interdiction ftands accurst,

And does blafpheme his Breed. Thy royal father

Was a molt fainted King; the Queen, that bore thee,

Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,

Dy'd every day she liv'd. Oh, fare thee well!

Thefe evils, thou repeat'ft upon thy felf,

Have banish'd me from Scotland. Oh, my breast!

Thy hope ends here.

Mal. Macduff, this noble Paffion,

Child of integrity, hath from my foul

Senfe: We therefore Both corrected conjecturally,

Than Summer teeming Lust.

i. e. the Paffion, which lafts no longer than the Heat of Life, and which goes off in the Winter of Age. Befides, the Metaphor is much more juft by our Emendation; for Summer is the Seafon in which Weeds get Strength, grow rank, and dilate themselves.

Wip'd the black fcruples; reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath fought to win me
Into his pow'r and modeft wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte; But God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
1 put my felf to thy direction, and

Unfpeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon my felf,
For ftrangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to woman, never was forfworn,
Scarely have coveted what was mine own,
At no time broke my faith, would not betray
The devil to his fellow, and delight

No lefs in truth, than life: my first falfe-speaking
Was this upon my felf. What I am truly,
Is thine, and my poor Country's, to command:
Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach,
Old Siward with ten thousand warlike men,
All ready at a point, was fetting forth.

Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness,
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you filent?
Macd. Such welcome, and unwelcome things at once;
'Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

Mal. Well; more anon.

pray you?

Comes the King forth, I

Doct. Ay, Sir; there are a crew of wretched fouls,

That ftay his Cure; their malady convinces
The great affay of Art. But, at his Touch,
Such fanctity hath heaven given his hand,
They prefently amend.

Mal. I thank you, Doctor.

Macd. What's the Difeafe he means?
Mal. "Tis call'd the Evil;

A moft miraculous Work in this good King,
Which often fince my here remain in England
I've feen him do. How he follicits heav'n,
Himself best knows; but ftrangely-vifited people,

[Exit.

All

All fwoln and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of furgery, he cures ;
Hanging a golden Stamp about their Necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,
To the fucceeding Royalty he leaves

The healing Benediction. With this ftrange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of Prophecy;

And fundry bleffings hang about his Throne,
That speak him full of Grace.

Enter Roffe.

Macd. See, who comes here!

Mal. My country man; but yet I know him not. Macd. My ever-gentle Coufin, welcome hither. Mal. I know him now. Good God betimes remove The means that makes us ftrangers!

Roffe. Sir, Amen.

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Roffe. Alas, poor Country,

Almoft afraid to know it felf. It cannot

Be call'd our Mother, but our Grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once feen to fmile:
Where fighs and groans, and hrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow feems
A modern ecftafie: the dead-man's Knell

Is there scarce ask'd, for whom and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps;

Dying, or ere they ficken.

Macd. Oh, relation

Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal. What's the newest grief?

Roffe. That of an hour's age doth hifs the speaker,

Each minute teems a new one.

Macd. How does my wife?

Roffe. Why, well.

Macd. And all my children?

Roffe. Well too.

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? Roffe. No; they were well at Peace, when I did leave

'em.

Macd.