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Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.

Macd.

This avarice

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,

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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,

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Mal.

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!

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O my breast,

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.
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

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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.

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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.

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I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor

'Tis call'd the evil :

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:

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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.

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.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Sir, amen.

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Ross.

Almost afraid to know itself!

Alas, poor country!

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

Macd.

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Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,

Dying or ere they sicken.

O, relation

What's the newest grief?

Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal.
Ross. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;

Each minute teems a new one.

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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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