Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.
Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons 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, perseverance, 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.
Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak :
I am as I have spoken.
Fit to govern! No, not to live. O nation miserable! With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne 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 banish ’d me from Scotland.
Thy hope ends here!
Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled 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
For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman, never 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, Already 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.
Mal. Well, more anon. Comes the king forth, I pray
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.
I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor
Mal. 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. Himself best knows:
How he solicits heaven, 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,
And sundry blessings hang about his throne That speak him full of grace.
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. Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Almost afraid to know itself!
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 rend 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.
Too nice, and yet too true!
Mal. Ross. 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? Ross. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes't? Ross. When I came hither to transport the tidings, I 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.
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