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Desire his jewels, and this other's house :
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
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
All unity on earth.
O Scotland! Scotland! Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak : I am as I have spoken.
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
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,
Died every day she lived. Fare thee well!
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
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
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. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
The means that make us strangers!
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
A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Too nice, and yet too true!
What's the newest grief? Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the
Each minute teems a new one.
Rosse. Why, well.
How does my wife?
And all my children?
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
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour
Be't their comfort,
We are coming thither: gracious England hath
'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. Macd. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief, Due to some single breast?
No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone.
If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound,
That ever yet they heard.
Humph! I guess at it. Rosse. Your castle is surprised; your wife, and babes,
Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
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.