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.

Macd.

This avarice

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 foisons 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

All unity on earth.

Macd.

O Scotland! Scotland!

Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak : I am as I have spoken.

Macd.

Fit to govern!

No, not to live.-O nation miserable,

With an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptred,

When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again?
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accursed,

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,

Fare thee well!

Died every day she lived.

These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself

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

Mal.

Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled 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,
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men,
Already at a point, was setting forth;

Now we'll together: and the chance of goodness Belike our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?

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?

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.

Mal.

I thank you, doctor.

[Exit Doctor.

Macd. What's the disease he means? Mal. '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, 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

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.

Macd.

Enter ROSSE.

See, who comes here? 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 make us strangers!

Rosse.

Sir, Amen. Macd. Stands Scotland where it did? Rosse.

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 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,
Dying, or ere they sicken.

Macd.

Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal.

O, relation,

What's the newest grief?

Rosse. 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? Rosse. No; they were well at peace, when I did leave them.

Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes it?

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 a-foot :
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.

Mal.

Be't their comfort,

We are coming thither: gracious England hath Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men ; 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.

What concern they?

Macd.
The general cause? or is it a fee-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.

Macd.

If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,

Which shall possess them with the heaviest

sound,

That ever yet they heard.

Macd.

Humph! I guess at it. Rosse. Your castle is surprised; your wife,

and babes,

Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,
To add the death of you.

Mal.

Merciful heaven !

What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your

brows;

Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break. Macd. My children too?

Rosse. Wife, children, servants, all that could be found.