SCENE III. The King of England's
Enter Malcolm and Macduff.
Mal. Let us feek out fome defolate Shade, and there Weep our fad Bofoms empty.
Hold faft the mortal Sword; and like good Men,
Beftride our downfal Birth-dome: Each new Morn,
New Widows howl, new Orphans cry, new Sorrows
Strike Heaven on the Face, that it refounds
As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out
Like Syllable of Dolour.
Mal. What I believe, I'll wail;
What know, believe; and what I can redress,
As I fhall find the time to friend, I will.
What you have spoke, it may be fo perchance;
This Tyrant, whofe fole Name blifters our Tongues,
Was once thought honeft: You have lov'd him well,
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young, but fomething
You may difcern of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor innocent Lamb,
T'appease an angry God.
Macd. I am not treacherous.
Mal. But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous Nature may recoil
In an imperial Charge. But I fhall crave your Pardon :
That which you are, my thoughts cannot tranfpofe;
Angels are bright ftill, though the brightest fell.
Though all things foul would bear the brows of Grace,
Yet Grace must still look fo,
Macd. I have loft my hopes.
Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find
Why in that rawnefs left you Wife and Children?
Those precious Motives, thofe ftrong knots of Love,
Without leave taking. I pray you,
Let not my Jealoufies, be your Dishonours,
But mine own Safeties: You may be rightly juft,
Whatever I fhall think.
Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor Country,
Great Tyranny, lay thou thy Basis fure,
For Goodness dares not check thee: wear thou thy wrongs,
The Title is afraid. Fare thee well, Lord,
I would not be the Villain that thou think'st,
For the whole space that's in the Tyrant's Grafp,
And the rich Eaft to boot.
I speak not as in absolute fear of you:
I think our Country finks beneath the Yoke,
It weeps, it bleeds, and each new Day a Gash
Is added to her Wounds. I think withal,
There would be hands up-lifted in my right:
And here from gracious England have I offer
Of goodly thoufands. But for all this,
When I fhall tread upon the Tyrant's Head,
Or wear it on my Sword; yet my poor Country
Shall have more Vices than it had before,
More fuffer, and more fundry ways
By him that shall fucceed.
Macd. What fhould he be?
Mal. It is my felf I mean, in whom I know
All the particulars of Vice fo grafted,
That when they fhall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will feem as pure as Snow, and the poor State
Efteem him as a Lamb, being compar'd
With my confinelefs 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, Falfe, Deceitful,
Sudden, Malicious, fmoaking of every Sin
That has a Name. But there's no bottom, none
In my Voluptuoufnefs: Your Wives, your Daughters,
Your Matrons, and your Maids, could not fill up
The Ciftern of my Luft, and my Defire
All continent Impediments would o'er-bear
That did oppofe my Will. Better Macbeth,
Than fuch an one to reign.
Macd. Boundlefs Intemperance
In Nature is a Tyranny; It hath been
Th' 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 fpacious Plenty,
And yet feem cold. The time you may fo Hoodwink,
We have willing Dames enough, there cannot be
That Vulture in you, to devour fo many
As will to Greatnefs dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclin’d.
Mal. With this, there grows
In my moft ill-compos'd Affection, fuch
A ftanchless Avarice, that were I King,
I should cut off the Nobles for their Lands;
Defire his Jewels, and this others House,
And my more-having would be as a Sawce
To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the Good and Loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.
Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious Root
Than Summer-feeming Luft; and it hath been
The Sword of our flain Kings: Yet do not fear,
Scotland hath Foyfons 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 Juftice, Verity, Temp'rance, Stableness,
Bounty, Perfeverance, Mercy, Lowlinefs,
Devotion, Patience, Courage, Fortitude;
I have no relish of them, but abound
In the Divifion of each feveral Crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I fhould
Pour the fweet Milk of Concord, into Hell,
Uproar the univerfal Peace, confound
All unity on Earth.
Macd. O Scotland! Scotland!
Mal. If fuch a one be fit to govern, fpeak; I am as I have spoken.
Macd. Fit to govern? No not to live. O Nation miferable!
With an untitled Tyrant, bloody Sceptred,
When fhalt thou fee thy wholesome Days again?
Since that the trueft Iffue of thy Throne
By his own Interdiction ftands accurft,
And do's blafpheme his Breed? thy Royal Father
Was a moft fainted King; the Queen that bore thee,
Oftner upon her Knees, than on her Feet,
Dy'd every Day fhe liv'd. Fare thee well,
Thefe Evils thou repeat ft upon thy felf,
Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my Breaft,
Thy hope ends here..
Mal. Macduff, this noble Paffion
Child of Integrity, hath from my Soul
Wip'd the black Scruples, reconcil'd my Thoughts
To thy good truth, and honour. Devillish Macbeth,
By many of these trains, hath fought to win me
Into his Power; and modest Wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte; but God above
Deal between thee and me; for even now
I put my felf to thy direction, and
Unfpeak mine own detraction, here abjure
The taints, and blames I laid upon my felf,
For ftrangers to my Nature. I am yet
Unknown to Women, never was forfworn,
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own,
At no time broke my Faith, would not betray
The Devil to his Fellow, and delight
No lefs in Truth than Life. My firft falfe speaking
Was this upon my felf; what I am truly
Is thine, and my poor Country's to command:
Whither indeed, before thy here approach,
Old Seyward with ten thousand warlike Men,
All ready at a point, was fetting forth.
Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness.
Be like our warranted Quarrel. Why are you filent?
Macd. Such welcome, and unwelcome things, at once,
'Tis hard to reconcile.
Comes the King forth, I pray
Dot. Ay Sir; there are a Crew of wretched Souls
That stay his Cure; their Malady convinces
The great Affay of Art. But at his touch,
Such fanctity hath Heav'n given his Hand,
They prefently amend.
Mal. I thank you, Doctor.
Macd. What's the Difeafe he means?
Mal. 'Tis call'd the Evil,
A moft miraculous work in this good King,
Which often fince my here remain in England,
I have seen him do. How he folicits Heav'n,
Himself best knows; but ftrangely vifited People,
All fwoln 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 fucceeding Royalty he leaves
The healing Benediction; with this strange Virtue,
He hath a Heavenly Gift of Prophecy,
And fundry Bleffings hang about his Throne,
That fpeak him full of G ace.
Macd. See, who comes here.
Mal. My Country-man; but yet I know him not. Macd. My ever gentle Coufin, welcome hither. Mal. I know him now. Good God betimes remove The means, the means that makes us Strangers.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Roffe. Alas poor Country,
Almost afraid to know it felf. It cannot
Be call'd our Mother, but our Grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once feen to fmile:
Where Sighs and Groans, and Shrieks that rend the Air
Are made, not mark'd; where violent Sorrow feems
A modern ecftafie: the Dead-man's Knel,
Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good Mens lives
Expire before the Flowers in their Caps,
Dying, or e'er they ficken.
Macd. Oh Relation! too nice, and yet too true,
Mal. What's the newest Grief?
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