Will feem as pure as fnow; and the poor ftate
Efteem 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 every fin

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 ciftern of my luft; and my defire

All continent impediments would o'er-bear,
That did oppose my will: Better Macbeth,
Than such a one to reign.

Macd.

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 pleafures in a spacious plenty,
And yet feem cold, the time you may so hood-wink.
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you, to devour so many

As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it fo inclin'd.

Mal.

With this, there grows,

In my most ill-compos'd affection, such
A ftanchless avarice, that, were I king,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands;
Defire his jewels, and this other's house :
And my more-having would be as a fauce

To

To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good, and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.

Macd.

This avarice

Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root
Than fummer-feeding lust: 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.

Mal. But I have none: The king-becoming graces,

As juftice, verity, temperance, stableness,

Bounty, perfeverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
I have no relish of them; but abound
In the divifion of each feveral crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,

Uproar the univerfal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

Macd.

O Scotland! Scotland!

Mal. If fuch a one be fit to govern, speak:

I am as I have spoken.

No, not to live.—O nation miserable,

With an untitled tyrant bloody-fcepter'd,

When shalt thou fee thy wholsome days again?

Since that the truest issue of thy throne

By his own interdiction stands accurs'd,

And does blafpheme his breed ?- Thy royal father

Was a most fainted king; the queen, that bore thee,
Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,
Died every day fhe lived. Fare thee well!

These

These evils, 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 foul

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 power; and modest wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte: But God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and

Unfpeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself,
For ftrangers to my nature.
I am yet
Unknown to woman; never was forfworn;
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-approach,
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men,
All ready at a point, was setting 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.-Comes the king forth, I pray

you?

Doft. Ay, fir: there are a crew of wretched fouls,

That

That stay his cure: their malady convinces
The great affay of art; but, at his touch,
Such fanctity hath heaven given his hand,
They presently amend.

Mal.

I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor.

Macd. What's the disease he means?
Mal.

'Tis call'd the evil :

A most miraculous work in this good king;
Which often, fince my here-remain in England,
I have seen him do. How he folicits heaven,
Himself best knows: but strangely-vifited people,
All fwoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures ;
Hanging a golden ftamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,
To the fucceeding royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;

And fundry bleffings hang about his throne,

That speak him full of grace.

Macd.

Enter ROSSE.

See, who comes here?

Mal. My countryman; 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 make us ftrangers!

Roffe.

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Roffe.

Sir, Amen.

Alas, poor country;

Almoft afraid to know itself! It cannot

Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once feen to smile;
Where fighs, and groans, and fhrieks that rent the air,

Are

Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow seems
A modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell

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

Dying, or ere they ficken,

Macd.

Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal.

O, relation,

What is the newest grief?

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

?

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace
Roffe. No; they were well at peace, when I did leave them.
Macd. Be not a niggard of your fpeech; How goes it?
Roffe. When I came hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour
Of many worthy fellows that were out;

Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I faw the tyrant's power a-foot :
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create foldiers, make our women fight,
To doff their dire diftreffes.

Be it their comfort,

Mal.
We are coming thither: gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men;
An older, and a better foldier, none

That Christendom gives out.

Roffe.

'Would I could answer

This comfort with the like! But I have words,
That would be howl'd out in the defert air,

Where hearing should not latch them.