Mal. What I believe, I'll wail;

What know, believe; and what I can redress,
As I fhall find the time to friend, I will.
What you have spoke, it may be fo perchance;
This tyrant, whofe fole name blifters our tongues,
Was once thought honeft: you have lov'd him well,
He hath not touch'd you yet. I'm young, but fomething
You may deserve of him through me; 'tis wisdom
To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb,

8

T'appeafe 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 tranfpofe;
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell:
Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace muft ftill look fo.

Macd. I've loft my hopes.

Mal. Perchance ev'n there, where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawnefs left you wife and children,

Those precious motives, thofe ftrong knots of love,
Without leave-taking?

Let not my jealoufies be your

dishonours,

But mine own fafeties: you may be rightly just,
Whatever I fhall think.

Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country!

Great tyranny, lay thou thy bafis 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 finks beneath the yoak,
It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gafh

8 difcern ...old edit. Theob, emend.

Is

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 thoufands. 9'But yet 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 than ever,
By him that shall fucceed.

Macd. What fhould he be?

Mal. It is my felf I mean, in whom I know a
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 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, falfe, deceitful,

Sudden, malicious, fmacking of each fin

That has a name. But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuoufnefs: 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 oppofe my will. Better Macbeth,
Than fuch 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 fpacious plenty,

And

(a) This conference of Malcolm with Macduff is taken out of the chronicles of Scotland.

Pope.

9 But for

And yet feem cold: the time you may fo hoodwink:
We've willing dames enough, there cannot be

That vulture in you to devour fo many,
As will to greatnefs dedicate themselves,
Finding it fo inclin'd.

Mal. With this, there grows

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

Macd. This avarice

1 'Strikes deeper; grows with more pernicious root
Than 2 fummer-teeming luft; and it hath been
The sword 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, temp'rance, ftableness,
Bounty, perfev'rance, mercy, lowlinefs,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude;
I have no relish of them, but abound
In the divifion of each several crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I fhould
3'Sow'r the fweet milk of concord into
Uproar the univerfal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

Macd. Oh Scotland! Scotland!

hate,`

Mal. If fuch a one be fit to govern, speak:

I am as I have spoken.

Macd. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. Oh nation miferable!

With an untitled tyrant, bloody-fceptred,
When fhalt thou fee thy wholefome days again,
Since that the trueft iffue of thy throne

By his own interdiction ftands accurft,

And does blafpheme his breed? Thy royal father
Was a moft fainted King; the Queen that bore thee,
Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,

Dy'd every day fhe liv'd. Oh fare thee well,
Thefe evils thou repeat'ft upon thy felf,

Have banish'd me from Scotland.

Thy hope ends here.

Oh my breaft!

Mal. Macduff, this noble paffion,

Child of integrity, hath from my foul

Wip'd the black fcruples, reconcil'd my thoughts
To this good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath fought to win me
Into his pow'r and modeft wifdom 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
Unfpeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon my self,
For ftrangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to women, never was yet 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 first false 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 '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.

5 the chance of

SCENE

[you?

Mal. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth, I pray Doct. Ay, Sir; there are a crew of wretched fouls

That ftay his cure; their malady convinces

The great affay of art. But at his touch,

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

Mal. I thank you, Doctor.

Macd. What's the difeafe he means?
Mal. 'Tis call'd the Evil,

A moft miraculous work in this good King,
Which often fince my here-remain in England
I've seen him do. How he folicits heav'n
Himself beft knows; but strangely-vifited people,
All fwol'n and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere defpair 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 strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,

And fundry bleffings hang about his throne,

That speak him full of grace.

SCENE

E NE VI.

Enter Roffe.

Macd. See, who comes here!

[Exit.

Mal. My country-man; 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!

Roffe. Sir, Amen.

6 makes

Macd.