The Sword of our ilin 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, ftablénefs,
Bounty, perfev'rance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude;
I have no relifh of them, but abound
In the divifion of each feveral crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the fweet 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 am as I have fpoken.

Macd. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. Oh, nation miferable,
With an untitled tyrant, bloody-fceptred!
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 most fainted King; the Queen, that bore thee,
Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,

Dy'd every day fhe liv'd. Oh, fare thee well!
Thefe evils, thou repeat'st upon thy felf,

i. e.

Than Summer-teeming Luft.

the Paffion, which lafts no longer than the Heat of Life, and which goes off in the Winter of Age. Befides, the Metaphor is much more just by our Emendation; for Summer is the Seafon in which Weeds get Strength, grow rank, and dilate themselves.

2 Henry VI.

Now 'tis the Spring,

And Weeds are fhallow-rooted; fuffer them now,

And they'll o'ergrow the Garden.

The fame Image our Author in another Paffage conveys by an equivalent Epithet, fummer-fwelling.

2 Gent. of Verona.

Difdain to root the fummer-fwelling Flow'r,

And make rough Winter everlastingly.

Ff 2

Have

Have banifh'd me from Scotland. Oh, my breaft!
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 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 self,
For ftrangers 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 less in truth, than life: my first false-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 Siward with ten thoufand 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.

Enter a Doctor.

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

Dot. 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 prefently amend.

Mal. I thank you, Doctor.

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

[Exit.

A

A most miraculous work in this good King,
Which often fince my here-remain in England
I've seen him do. How he follicits heav'n,
Himself beft knows; but ftrangely-vifited people,
All fwoln and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere defpair of furgery, he cures;
Hanging a golden Stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis fpoken,
To the fucceeding Royalty he leaves

(38)

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.

Enter Roffe.

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 that makes us ftrangers!

Roffe. Sir, Amen.

Micd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Roffe. Alas, poor Country,

Almoft 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 smile:

Where fighs and groans, and fhrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow seems

To the fucceeding Royalty he leaves

The healing Benediction.] Mr. Warburton acutely obferv'd to me upon this Paffage, that as, it must be own'd, Shakespeare is often guilty of moft ftrange Abfurdities; fo, on the other hand, in this Inftance he has artfully avoided One. He had a Mind to hint, that the Cure of the Evil was to defcend to the Succeffors in the Royal Line. But the Confeffor was the First, who pretended to this Gift: How then could it be at that Time generally spoken of, that the Gift was to be, hereditary? This he has folv'd by infinuating, that Edward had a heavenly Gift of Prophecy; by which He was inform'd, the Cure fhould remain in his Pofterity. 'Tis certain, he was refolv'd to throw in the Tradition as a Compliment to K. James I. who was very fond of practising this Superftition; and, I doubt not, had great Faith in the Sanctity of his Hand upon this Occafion.

A modern ecftafie: the dead-man's Knell

Is there scarce ask'd, for whom: and good mens 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 newest grief?

Roffe. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker, Each minute teems a new one.

Macd. How does my wife?

Roffe. Why, well.
Macd. And all my

Roffe. Well too.

L

children?

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?
Roffe. No; they, were well at Peace, when I did leave

'em.

Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes it? Roffe. When I came hither to tranfport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out, Which was to my belief witnefs'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, and make women fight, To doff their dire diftreffes.

Mal. Be't their comfort

We're coming thither: gracious England hath (39)
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men ;

An older, and a better foldier, none

That Christendom gives out.

(39)

gracious England bath

Roffe.

Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand Men.] This Siward was Earl of Northumberland; and an approv'd old Soldier. But it was not for this Reafon alone, probably, that Edward the Confeffor appointed him his General against Macbeth: but because the Earl, by his Daughter, was nearly link'd with Malcolme's Family. We find Malcolme afterwards calling him Uncle. It may not be difpleafing to the curious if I fubjoin a Pedigree, which will at one View fhew Sisward's Relation to Malcolme, and Macbeth's to the Scotch Crown.

Malcolme

Roffe. 'Would, I could answer

This comfort with the like! But I have words,
That would be howl'd out in the defart air,
Where Hearing fhould not catch them.
Macd. What concern they?

The gen❜ral Cause? or is it a fee-grief,
Due to fome fingle breast?

Roffe. No mind, that's honeft,

But in it shares fome woe; though 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 Sound,
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 thefe murther'd deer
To add the death of you.

Mal. Merciful heav'n!

What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give forrow words; the grief, that does not fpeak,
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've faid.

Malcolm Cammoir.

So that Duncan and Macbeth were Sifters' Children and Siward was Malcolme's Grandfather by the Mother's Side.

Ff 4

Mal.