MALCOLM It is myself I mean; in whom I know
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All the particulars of vice so grafted,
That, when they shall be open’d, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor State
Esteem him as a lamb, being compar’d
With my confineless harms.
MACDUFF Not in the legions
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Of horrid Hell can come a devil more damn’d
In evils, to top Macbeth.
MALCOLM I grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin
That has a name; but there’s no bottom, none,
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In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
The cistern of my lust; and my desire
All continent impediments would o’erbear,
That did oppose my will: better Macbeth,
65
Than such an one to reign.
MACDUFF Boundless 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
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Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,
And yet seem cold – the time you may so hoodwink:
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you, to devour so many
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
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Finding it so inclin’d.
MALCOLM With this, there grows
In my most ill-compos’d affection such
A staunchless avarice, that, were I King,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands;
Desire his jewels, and this other’s house:
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And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.
MACDUFF This avarice
Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root
85
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.
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MALCOLM But I have none: the king-becoming graces,
As Justice, Verity, Temp’rance, Stableness,
Bounty, Perseverance, Mercy, Lowliness,
Devotion, Patience, Courage, Fortitude,
I have no relish of them; but abound
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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.
MACDUFF O Scotland! Scotland!
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MALCOLM If such a one be fit to govern, speak:
I am as I have spoken.
MACDUFF 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,
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Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accus’d,
And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father
Was a most sainted King: the Queen, that bore thee,
Oft’ner upon her knees than on her feet,
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Died every day she liv’d. Fare thee well!
These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself
Hath banish’d me from Scotland. – O my breast,
Thy hope ends here!
MALCOLM Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
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Wip’d the black scruples, reconcil’d 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
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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
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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
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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?
MACDUFF
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once,
’Tis hard to reconcile.
Enter a Doctor.
MALCOLM Well, more anon.
Comes the King forth, I pray you?
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DOCTOR Aye, 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.
MALCOLM I thank you, Doctor.
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Exit Doctor.
MACDUFF What’s the disease he means?
MALCOLM ’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,
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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
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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 ROSSE.
MACDUFF See, who comes here.
MALCOLM My countryman; but yet I know him not.
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MACDUFF My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
MALCOLM
I know him now. Good God, betimes remove
The means that makes us strangers!
ROSSE Sir, amen.
MACDUFF Stands Scotland where it did?
ROSSE Alas, poor country!
Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot
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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 rent the air
Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy: the dead man’s knell
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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.
MACDUFF O relation,
Too nice, and yet too true!
&nbs
p; MALCOLM What’s the newest grief?
ROSSE That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker;
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Each minute teems a new one.
MACDUFF How does my wife?
ROSSE Why, well.
MACDUFF And all my children?
ROSSE Well too.
MACDUFF The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace?
ROSSE
No; they were well at peace, when I did leave ‘em.
MACDUFF
Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes’t?
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ROSSE When I came hither to transport the tidings,
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 afoot.
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Now is the time of help. Your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.
MALCOLM Be’t their comfort,
We are coming thither. Gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men;
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An older, and a better soldier, none
That Christendom gives out.
ROSSE 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 should not latch them.
MACDUFF What concern they?
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The general cause? or is it a free-grief,
Due to some single breast?
ROSSE No mind that’s honest
But in it shares some woe, though the main part
Pertains to you alone.
MACDUFF If it be mine,
Keep it not from me; quickly let me have it.
200
ROSSE Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound,
That ever yet they heard.
MACDUFF Humh! I guess at it.
ROSSE Your castle is surpris’d; your wife, and babes,
Savagely slaughter’d: to relate the manner,
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Were, on the quarry of these murther’d deer,
To add the death of you.
MALCOLM Merciful Heaven! –
What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows:
Give sorrow words; the grief, that does not speak,
Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
210
MACDUFF My children too?
ROSSE Wife, children, servants, all
That could be found.
MACDUFF And I must be from thence!
My wife kill’d too?
ROSSE I have said.
MALCOLM Be comforted:
Let’s make us med’cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.
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MACDUFF He has no children. – All my pretty ones?
Did you say all? – O Hell-kite! – All?
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop?
MALCOLM Dispute it like a man.
MACDUFF I shall do so;
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But I must also feel it as a man:
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me. – Did Heaven look on,
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff!
They were all struck for thee. Naught that I am,
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Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now!
MALCOLM
Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
MACDUFF O! I could play the woman with mine eyes,
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And braggart with my tongue. – But, gentle Heavens,
Cut short all intermission; front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself;
Within my sword’s length set him; if he ‘scape,
Heaven forgive him too!
MALCOLM This tune goes manly.
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Come, go we to the King: our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the Powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may;
The night is long that never finds the day. Exeunt.
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5.1 Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.
The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works Page 346
