(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, Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country. Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, 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 grasp, Mal. Be not offended: I think, our country sinks beneath the yoke; Macd. What should he be ? 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. 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, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: But there's no bottom, none, All continent impediments would o'er-bear, Macd. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne, As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Mal. With this, there grows, This avarice Macd. Mal. But I have none: The king-becoming graces As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, 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-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again? 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, Oftner upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils, thou repeat'st upon thyself, Have banish'd me from Scotland.-O, my breast, Mal. Macduff, this noble passion, Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; No less in truth, than life: my first false speaking Now we'll together; And the chance, of goodness, 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, 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; 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. Enter Rosse. Macd. 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, Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives 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; |