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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 king8 : yet do not fear ;
Scotland hath foisons to fill
will Of your mere own: all these are portable, With other graces weigh’d.
90 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.
O Scotland, Scotland ! 100 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,
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 !
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 upon myself,
For strangers to my nature.
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, 131
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.
Enter a Doctor. Mal. Well, more anon. Comes the king forth, I pray you?
140 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. [Exit 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, , 151
The mere despair of surgery,
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.
Enter Ross Macd.
See, who comes here? Mal. My countryman ; but yet I know him not.
160 Macd. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither. Mal. I know him now: good God, betimes remove
The means that makes us strangers !
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did ?
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 rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell 170
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 !
What's the newest grief? Ross. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker ;
Each minute teems a new one. Macd.
wife ? Ross. Why, well. Macd.
And all my children ? Ross.
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, 181
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.