Enter a Doctor.

Malcolm. Well, more anon.-Comes the king forth, I pray

you?

Doctor. 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.

Malcolm.

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I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor. Macduff. What's the disease he means? Malcolm.

'T is 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 solicits heaven,
Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people,
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures,
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers; and 't is 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.

150

Macduff.

Enter Ross.

See, who comes here?

Malcolm. My countryman; but yet I know him not. 160 Macduff. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.

Malcolm. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove

The means that makes us strangers!

Ross.

Sir, amen.

Macduff. Stands Scotland where it did?
Ross.

Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot

Alas, poor country!

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 the air
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy: 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.

Macduff.

Too nice, and yet too true!

Malcolm.

O, relation

What's the newest grief?

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

170

Macduff. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? Ross. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. Macduff. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes 't? Ross. 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 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.

Malcolm.

Be 't their comfort

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

That Christendom gives out.

Ross.

Would I could answer

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190

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.

Macduff.

The general cause? or is it a fee-grief

Due to some single breast?

Ross.

What concern they?

No mind that's honest

But in it shares some woe, though the main part

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

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

Macduff.

Hum! I guess at it.

Ross. Your castle is surpris'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.

Merciful heaven!—

Malcolm.
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.
Macduff. My children too?

Let's make us medicines of our great revenge,

To cure this deadly grief.

Macduff. 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?

H

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210

Malcolm. Dispute it like a man.
Macduff.

But I must also feel it as a man:

I shall do so;

220

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 struck for thee! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!
Malcolm. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

Macduff. 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;
Within my sword's length set him; if he scape,
Heaven forgive him too!

Malcolm.

This tune goes 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.

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240

[Exeunt.

SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.

Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting Gentlewoman.

Doctor. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?

Gentlewoman. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon 't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

Doctor. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what at any time have you heard her say?

Gentlewoman. That, sir, which I will not report after her. Doctor. You may to me, and 't is most meet you should.

II