Puslapio vaizdai

Mal. Macduff, this noble paffion,
Child of integrity, hath from my foul

Wip'd the black scruples; reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath fought to win me
Into his power; and modeft wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte; but God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and
Unfpeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself,
For ftrangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to y woman, never was forfworn,

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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 fpeaking
Was this upon myself. 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,

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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.

y The three laft fo's, R. P. and H. women for woman.

z The three last fo's, forfwore.

a First f. they for tby.

e W. fays, Shakespeare certainly wrote [appoint, i. e. at the place appointed, at the rendezvous.

d H. our for the.

b The fo's, Already.



Enter a Doctor.

Mal. Well; more anon. Comes the King forth, I pray you?

Doct. Ay, Sir; there are a crew of wretched fouls, That ftay his cure; their malady convinces

The great affay of art. But, at his touch,

Such fanctity hath heaven given his hand,
They presently amend.

Mal. I thank you, Doctor.

Macd. What's the difeafe he means?
Mal. 'Tis call'd the Evil';

A most miraculous work in this good King,
Which often fince my here-remain in England
I have seen him do. How he follicits heaven,
Himself best knows; but ftrangely vifited people,
All fwoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of furgery, he cures,
Hanging a golden ftamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers. And 'tis spoken,
To the fucceeding Royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this ftrange virtue,

He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;

And fundry bleffings hang about his throne,

That fpeak him full of grace.

e H. in for of.


F convinces for defeats, overcomes.



Enter Roffe.

Macd. See, who comes here?

Mal. My countryman; but yet I know him not.
Macd. My ever-gentle confin, welcome hither.

Mal. I know him now. Good God betimes remove


The means that makes us ftrangers!

Roffe. Sir, Amen.

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Roffe. Alas, poor country,

Almoft afraid to know itself. It cannot

Be call'd our mother, but our grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing is once feen to smile:

Where fighs and groans, and flaricks that rend the air.
Are made, not mank'd; where violent forrow feems

A modern ecftafy; the dead man's knell

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

Dying, or ere they, ficken.

Macd. Oh relation

Too nice,, and yet too true!
Mal. What's the neweft, grief?

g The three last fo's and R. The means, the means that, &c.

H. and

make for makes,

i The fo's and C. rent for rend.

k P. and all after, except C. whom for who.


Roffe. That of an hour's age doth bifs the speaker:

Each minute teems a new one.

Macd. How does my wife?

Roffe. Why, well.

Macd. And all my children?

Roffe. Well too.

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?

Roffe. No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'ein. Macd. Be not a niggard of your fpeech: How goes 't? Roffe. When I came hither, to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily born, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out, Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, For that I faw the tyrant's power a-foot... Now is the time of help your eye in Scotland Would create foldiers, m make our women fight, To doff their dire diftreffes.

Mal. Be 't their comfort,

We are coming thither, Gracious England. hath
Lent us good Serward, and ten thousand men,
An older, and a better foldier, none

That Christendom gives out.

Roffe. Would I could answer

This comfort with the like! But I have words
That would be howl'd out in the defert air,
Where hearing fhould not " catch them.


Macd. What concern they?

The general caufe? or is it a fee-grief,
Due to fome fingle breast ?

1 H. Relation, ob! too nice, &c.
P. and all after, except C. and

maka tuomen, &c

The fo's and C. latch for catch.

Roffe. No mind, that 's honeft,

But in it shares fome woe; though the main

Pertains to you alone.

Macd. If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.


Roffe. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall poffefs them with the heaviest sound, That ever yet they heard.

Macd. Humh! 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 thefe murther'd deer

To add the death of you.

Mal. Merciful heaven!

What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give forrow words; the grief that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Macd. My children too?

Roffe. Wife, children, fervants, all that could be found.
Macd. And I must be from thence!-my wife kill'd too?
Roffe. I have faid.

Mal. Be comforted.

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,

To cure this deadly grief.

Macd. He has no children.- All my pretty ones?

Did you fay all? PO hell-kite! all?

H. inferts What before All.

P After all, P. T. H. W, and J. add, what, all? P, and H. omit in their

text, O bell-kite all, &c. to the end of the speech.


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