For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs,
Thy 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 grafp,
And the rich eaft to boot.

MAL. Be not offended:

I speak not as in abfolute 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 fhall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my fword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before ;

More fuffer, and more fundry ways

By him that fhall fucceed.

MACD. What should he be?

than ever,

MAL. It is myself I mean: in whom I know
All the particulars of vice fo grafted,

That, when they fhall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will feem as pure as fnow; and the poor ftate
Efteem him as a lamb, being compar'd
With my confinelefs harms.

MACD. Not in the legions

Of horrid hell, can come a devil more damn'd
In evils, to top Macbeth.

MAL. I grant him bloody,

Luxurious, avaricious, falfe, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, fmacking of every fin

That has a name: But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptoufnefs: your wives, your daughters,

Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
The ciftern of my luft; and my defire

All continent impediments would o'er-bear,
That did oppose my will; Better Macbeth,
Than fuch a one to reign.

MACD. Boundless intemperance

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 feem cold, the time you may fo hood-wink.
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you, to devour fo many

As will to greatnefs dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclin'd.

In

MAL. With this, there grows,

my

moft ill-compos'd affection, fuch
A ftanchless avarice, that, were I king,
I fhould cut off the nobles for their lands
Defire his jewels, and this other's house:
And my more having would be as a fauce

;

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 fummer-feeding luft : and it hath been
The fword of our flain 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, temperance, ftableness,
Bounty, perfeverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
I have no relish 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. O Scotland! Scotland!

MAL. If fuch a one be fit to govern, fpeak;

I am as I have spoken.

MACD. Fit to govern!

No, not to live.-O nation miferable,
With an untitled tyrant bloody scepter'd,

When shalt thou fee thy wholfome days again?
Since that the trueft iffue of thy throne

By his own interdiction ftands accurs'd,

And does blafpheme his breed?-Thy royal father
Was a most fainted king; the queen, that bore thee,
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,

Died every day fhe lived. Fare thee well!
These evils, thou repeat'st upon thyself,

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

MAL. Macduff, this noble paffion,

Child of integrity, hath from my foul

Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath fought to win me
Into his power; and modest wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte: But God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now

I put myself to thy direction, and

Unfpeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself,

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 lefs in truth, than life: my firft falfe fpeaking
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,
All ready at a point, was setting 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?

DOCT. Ay, fir: there are a crew of wretched fouls, That stay his cure: their malady convinces

The

great affay of art; but at his touch,

Such fanctity hath heaven given his hand,

They presently amend.

MAL. I thank you, doctor.

MACD. What is the disease he means?

MAL. 'Tis call'd the evil:

[Exit DOCTOR.

A moft miraculous work in this good king;
Which often, fince my here-remain in England,
I have seen him do. How he folicits heaven,
Himself best knows: but ftrangely-vifited people,

All fwoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of furgery, he cures ;
Hanging a golden ftamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis fpoken,
To the fucceeding royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this ftrange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy ;

And fundry bleffings hang about his throne,

That speak him full of

1

grace.

Enter Ross E.

MACD. See, who comes here?

MAL. My countryman; 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 make us ftrangers.

ROSSE. Sir, Amen.

MACD. Stands Scotland where it did?

ROSSE. Alas, poor country;

Almoft afraid to know itself! It cannot

Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once feen to fmile;
Where fighs, and groans, and fhrieks that rent the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow feems
A modern ecstacy: the dead man's knell -

Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their

Dying, or ere they ficken.

MACD. O, relation,

Too nice, and yet too true!

MAL. What is the neweft grief?

caps,

ROSSE. That of an hour's age doth hifs the fpeaker; Each minute teems a new one.

MACD, How does my wife?