Shall have more vices than it had before; Macd. 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 opened, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compared With my confineless harms. Macd. Not in the legions Of horrid hell, can come a devil more damned Mal. Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name. But there's no bottom, none, All continent impediments would o'erbear, Macd. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Mal. This avarice Macd. The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear; Of your mere own. All these are portable, Mal. But I have none. The king-becoming graces, Acting in 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. Macd. O Scotland! Scotland! Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak. I am as I have spoken. Macd. Fit to govern! No, not to live.- O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptred, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again? By his own interdiction stands accursed, And does blaspheme his breed? - Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen, that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils, thou repeat'st upon thyself, Have banished me from Scotland.-O, my breast, Mal. No less in truth, than life: my first false speaking Now we'll together; and the chance of goodness, Enter a Doctor. Mal. Well; more anon.-Comes the king forth, I pray you? Doct. 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. Macd. What's the disease he means? [Exit Doctor. 'Tis called the evil; A most miraculous work in this good king: The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, And sundry blessings hang about his throne, To speak him full of grace. Macd. Enter ROSSE. See, who comes here? Mal. My countryman; but yet I know him not. Mal. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that make us strangers! Rosse. Sir, Amen. Alas, poor country! Macd. Stands Scotland where it did? Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be called our mother, but our grave; where nothing, Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air, Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell. Is there scarce asked, for who; and good men's lives Macd. Too nice, and yet too true! Mal. O, relation, What is the newest grief? Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. Macd. How does my wife? Rosse. Why, well. Macd. And all my children? Rosse. Well too. Macd. The tyrant has not battered at their peace? Rosse. No; they were well at peace, when I did leave them. Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech. How goes it? Rosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings. Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor Of many worthy fellows that were out; Now is the time of help! Your eye in Scotland Mal. Be it their comfort, We are coming thither. Gracious England hath That Christendom gives out. Rosse. 'Would I could answer This comfort with the like! but I have words, Macd. What concern they? No mind, that's honest, The general cause? or is it a fee-grief, Rosse. But in it shares some woe; though the main part Keep it not from me; quickly let me have it. That ever yet they heard. Macd. Humph! I guess at it. Rosse. Your castle is surprised; your wife, and babes, Savagely slaughtered: to relate the manner, Were, on the quarry of these murdered deer, Mal. Rosse. That could be found. Macd. Wife, children, servants, all And I must be from thence! My wife killed too? Rosse. I have said. Be comforted. Mal. Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. Macd. 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. Macd. But I must also feel it as a man. I shall do so; I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.-Did Heaven look on, They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am, Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now! Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle Heavens, Cut short all intermission: front to front, Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself; Mal. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the king: our power is ready; |