That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose: Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so.
Mal. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child
(Those precious motives, those strong knots of love) Without leave-taking?-I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,
But mine own safeties:-you may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think.
Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, Thy(6) title is affeer'd!-Fare thee well, lord:
I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp, And the rich East to boot.
I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks 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 uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall 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 suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed.
Mal. It is myself I mean: in whom I know 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.
Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd
In evils to top Macbeth.
I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there's no bottom, none, 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 Than such an one to reign.
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The 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 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, Finding it so inclin'd.
Mal. With this, there grows, In my most ill-compos'd affection, such A stanchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other's house: 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.
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 foysons 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, perséverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them; but abound 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
O Scotland, Scotland!
Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak :
I am as I have spoken.
No, not to live.-O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accurs'd,
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 liv'd. (62) Fare thee well! These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself
Have banish'd me from Scotland.-O my breast, Thy hope ends here!
Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul
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 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 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, (63) Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, Already(64) at a point, was setting forth :
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.
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.
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, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the
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.
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!
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did? Ross.
Almost afraid to know itself! 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 rent the air, Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Ross. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one.
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, 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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