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, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking 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.

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 pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem 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 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.

Macd. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeding lust: and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: Yet do not fear; Scotland hath foysons 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 justice, verity, temperance, 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.

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-scepter'd,

When shalt thou see thy wholsome days again?
Since that the truest issue of thy throne

By his own interdiction stands accurs'd,

And does blaspheme his breed?-Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king; the queen, that bore thee,
Oft'ner upon her knees than on her feet,

Died every day she lived. Fare thee well!
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 soul Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish 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; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; neyer was forsworn; 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 silent?
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?

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? 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 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 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,

He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;

[Exit Doctor.

And sundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full of grace.

Enter Rosse.

Macd.
See, who comes here?
Mal. My countryman; but yet I know him not.
Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
Mal. I know him now: Good God, betimes re-

move

The means that make us strangers!

Rosse.
Sir, Amen.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Rosse.

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 the
air,

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

Macd.

Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal.

What is the newest grief? Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one.

How does my wife?

Macd.

Rosse. Why, well.
Macd.

O, relation,

And all my children?

Rosse.

Well too. Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? Rossc. 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 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