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Mal. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance ; This tyrant, whole sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have lov'd him well, He hath not touch'd you yec. I'm young, buc something You may 8/deserve' of him through me; 'tis wisdom To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb, T'appeale an angry God.

Macd. I am not treacherous.

Mal. But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil
In an imperial charge. I crave your pardon :
That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose;
Angels are bright itill, though the brightest fell :
Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace muft ftill look fo.

Macd. I've lost my hopes.

Mal. Perchance ev’n there, where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and children, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking? Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, But mine own fafeties: you may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think.

Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis fure,
For goodness dares not check thee! Wear thou thy wrongs,
His title is affeer'd. Fare thee well, Lord:
I would not be the villain that thou think'ft
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,
And the rich east to boot.

Mal, Be not offended ;
I speak not as in abfolute fear of you.
I think our country sinks beneath the yoak,
It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash


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Is added to her wounds. I think withal,
There would be hands up-lifted in my right:
And here from gracious England have I offer
Of goodly thousands. 9'But yet for all this,
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before,
More fuffer, and more fundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.
Macd. What should he be ?

Mal. It is my self I mean, in whom I know a
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
Efteen 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 ills to top Macbeth.
:· Mal. I grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking of each sin
That has a name.

But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill

The cistern of my lust; and my desire
All continent impediments would o'er-bear
That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth,
Than such an one to reign.

Macd. Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
Th' 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 (a) This conference of Malcolm with Macduff is taken out of the Chronicles of Scotland. Pope.

9 But for

And yet seem cold: the time you may so hoodwink:
We've willing dames enough, there cannot be
That vulture in you to devour so many,
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it to inclin'd.

Mal. With this, there grows

my most ill-compos'd affection, such
A ftanchless avarice, that were I King
I should cut off the nobles for their lands;
Desire his jewels, and this other's house,
And my more-having would be as a fawce
To make me hunger more; that I thould forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.

Macd. This avarice
1 'Strikes' deeper; grows with more pernicious root
Than 2 'summer-teeming' lust, and it hath been
The sword of our Nain Kings: yet do not fear,
Scotland hath foysons 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, temp'rance, stableness,
Bounty, persev'rance, 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
3/Sow'r the sweet milk of concord into t'hate,'
Uproar the universal


confound All unity on earth.

Macd. Oh 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. Oh nation miserable !

With i Sticks ... old edit. Warb, emend, 2 summer-seeming ... old edit, Warb. emend.

3 Pour

4 hell,

With an untitled tyrant, bloody-sceptred,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,
Since that the trueft iffue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accurft,
And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father
Was a most tainted King; the Queen that bore thee,
Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,
Dy'd every day she liv’d. Oh fare thee well,
These evils thou repeat'st upon thy felf,
Have banilh'd me from Scotland. Oh my breaft!
Thy hope ends here.

Mal. Macduff, this noble pafsion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts
To this good truth and honour. Devilish Macberb
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 self to thy direction, and
Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon my self,
For strangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to women, never was yet 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 falfe 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 thousand warlike men
All ready at a point, was fetting forth.
Now we'll together, and s'our chance, in goodness
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you filent?

Macd. Such welcome, and unwelcome things, at once, 'Tis hard to reconcile. s the chance of


S CE N E v. e Enter a Doctor.

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

Dokt. Ay, Sir; there are a crew of wretched souls el That stay his cure; their malady convinces 2. The great assay of art. But at his touch,

Such fanctity hath heav'n given his hand, of the They presently amend.

[Exit. Mal. I thank you, Doctor. Macd. What's the diseafe he means ?

Mal. 'Tis calld the Evil,
may be A most miraculous work in this good King,

Which often since my here-remain in England
I've seen him do. How he folicits heav'n
Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people,
All swol'n and ulc'rous, 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 fpoken,
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.

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Macd. See, who comes here !
Mal. My country-man; 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 !
Rolle. Sir, Amen.

Macd. 6 makes


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