Puslapio vaizdai

Confound and fwallow navigation up;

Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down,
Though caftles topple on their warders heads;
Though palaces and pyramids do flope

Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure
(21) Of nature's germins tumble all together,
Ev'n till deftruction ficken; answer me

To what I ask you.

SCENE IV. Malcolm's Character of himself.

Mal. But I have none; the king becoming graces, As juftice, verity, temp'rance, ftalleness, Bounty, perfev'rance, 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 sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the univerfal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

Macd. Oh Scotland! Scotland!

Mal. If fuch a one be fit to govern, speak; I'm as I have spoken.

Macd. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. Oh, nation miferable,
With an untitled tyrant, bloody-fceptered!!
When fhalt thou fee thy wholefome days again
Since that the trueft iffue of thy throne
By his own interdiction ftands accurft,
And does blafpheme his breed. Thy royal father
Was a moft fainted king; the queen that bore thee,
Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,

(22) Dy'd every day fhe liv'd. Oh! fare thee well!


(21) See King Lear, p. 150. n. 16..

(22) Dy'd, &c.] This is plainly taken from St. Paul, I dia daily.

Thefe evils thou repeat'ft upon thyself,

Have banish'd me from Scotland. Oh, my breast!
Thy hope ends here.

Mal. Macduff, this noble paffion,
Child of integrity, hath from my foul
Wip'd the black fcruples; reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath fought to win me
Into his pow'r and modeft wifdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte; but God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and
(23) Unfpeak 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 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 first falfe-speaking
Was this upon myself.
What I am truly,
Is thine, and my poor country's, to command..

SCENE VI. An opprefs'd Country.

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 feen to fmile:
Where fighs and groans, and fhrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow feems.
A modern ecítacy: the dead-manʼs knell

Is there scarce aík'd, for whom: and good mens' lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying, or ere they ficken.

(13) See the whole scene..


Macduff, on the Murder of his Wife and Children.

Roffe. 'Would I could answer

This comfort with the like! but I have words,
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Where hearing fhould not catch them.
Macd. What concern they?
The gen'ral caufe? or is it a fee-grief,
Due to fome fingle breaft?

Roffe. No mind, that's honeft,

But in it fhares fome woe; tho' the main part
Pertains to you alone.

Macd. If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
Roffe. Let not your ears defpife my tongue for ever,
Which fhall poffefs them with the heaviest found,
That ever yet they heard.

Macd. Hum! I guess at it.

Roffe. Your caftle is furpriz'd, your wife and babes
Savagely flaughter'd; to relate the manner,
Were on the quarry of these murther'd deer
To add the death of you.

Mal. Merciful heav'n!

What man! ne'er pull your hat upon your
Give forrow words; the grief that does not speak,
Whifpers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

Macd My children too?

Roffe. Wife, children, fervants, all that could be found.

Mecd. And I must be from thence! my wife kill'd too!

Roffe. I've faid.

Mal. Be comforted.

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.


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Macd. (24) He has no children.- All my pretty


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Did you fay all? what, all? oh, hell-kite! all?
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell fwoop?

Mal. Difpute it like a man.

Macd. I fhall do fo:

But I must alfo feel it as a man.

I cannot but remember fuch things were,
That were most precious to me: did heav'n look on,
And would not take their part? finful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell flaughter on their fouls; heav'n reft them now!

Mal. Be this the whetstone of your fword, let grief
Convert to wrath: blunt not the heart, enrage it.

Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle heav'n! Cut fhort all intermiffion: front to front;

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;
Within my
fword's length fet him, if he 'scape,
Then heav'n forgive him too!
Mal. This tune goes manly;

Come, go we to the king, our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for fhaking, and the powers above
Put on their inftruments.

Receive what cheer you


The night is long that never finds the day.



(24) He has, &c.] Nothing can be more natural than this reflection: the father's thoughts are wholly ingroffed by his misfortune, and difregarding what Malcolm fays to him, he burfts out into this pathetic exprobriation of the tyrant; Conftance, in King John fpeaks thus to Pandolph,

He talks to me that never had a fon!


Enter Lady Macbeth with a Taper.

Gent. Lo, you! here fhe comes! this is her very guife, and, upon my life, fast afleep; observe her, stand


Doct. How came fhe by that light?

Gent. Why, it flood by her: fhe has light by her continually, 'tis her command.

Doct. You fee, her eyes are open.

Gent. Ay, but their fenfe is fhut.

Doct. What is it fhe does now? look how the rubs her hands.

Gent. It is an accustom❜d action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady. Yet here's a spot. Doct. Hark, fhe fpeaks. I will fet down what comes from her, to fatisfy my remembrance the more ftrongly.

Lady. Out! damned fpot; out, I fay-one; two; why then 'tis time to do't- hell is murky. Fy, my lord, fy, a foldier, and afraid? what need we fear who 'knows it, when none can call our power to account ?— yet who would have thought the old man to have had fo much blood in him?

Doct. Do you mark that?

Lady. The Thane of Fife had a wife where is the now? what, will thefe hands ne'er be clean ?——no more o'that, my lord, no more o'that you mar alk with this ftarting.

Doct. Go to, go to, you have known what

you fhould


Gent. She has fpoke what the fhould not, I am fure of that heaven knows, what she has known.

Lady. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the per


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