Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, 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 open'd, 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 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, All continent impediments would o'erbear MACD. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne To take upon you what is yours: you may And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. As will to greatness dedicate themselves, MAL. With this there grows In my most ill-composed affection such This avarice MACD. Of your mere own: all these are portable, MAL. But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, 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, And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast, MAL. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, Scarcely have coveted what was mine own, No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Is thine and my poor country's to command: Now we'll together; and the chance of goodness once 'Tis hard to reconcile. Enter a Doctor. MAL. Well; more anon. I pray you? -Comes the king forth, 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- MAL. 'Tis call'd the evil: I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor. MACD. What's the disease he means? MAL. 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, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, And sundry blessings hang about his throne, MACD. Enter Ross. 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 remove The means that makes us strangers! Ross. Sir, amen. MACD. Stands Scotland where it did? Alas, poor country! Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot air Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives caps, |