ACT IV SCENE III | England. Before the King's palace. | |
[Enter MALCOLM and MACDUFF] |
MALCOLM | Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there |
| Weep our sad bosoms empty. |
MACDUFF | Let us rather |
| Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men |
| Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn |
| New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows |
| Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds |
| As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out |
| Like syllable of dolour. |
MALCOLM | What I believe I'll wail, |
| What know believe, and what I can redress, |
| As I shall find the time to friend, I will. | 10 |
| What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. |
| This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, |
| Was once thought honest: you have loved him well. |
| He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; |
| but something |
| You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom |
| To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb |
| To appease an angry god. |
MACDUFF | I am not treacherous. |
MALCOLM | But Macbeth is. |
| A good and virtuous nature may recoil |
| In an imperial charge. But I shall crave |
| your pardon; | 20 |
| That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose: |
| Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell; |
| Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, |
| Yet grace must still look so. |
MACDUFF | I have lost my hopes. |
MALCOLM | Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. |
| Why in that rawness left you wife and child, |
| 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, | 30 |
| Whatever I shall think. |
MACDUFF | Bleed, bleed, poor country! |
| Great tyranny! lay thou thy basis sure, |
| For goodness dare not cheque thee: wear thou |
| thy wrongs; |
| The 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, |
| And the rich East to boot. |
MALCOLM | Be not offended: |
| I speak not as in absolute fear of you. |
| I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; |
| It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash | 40 |
| 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 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 suffer and more sundry ways than ever, |
| By him that shall succeed. |
MACDUFF | What should he be? |
MALCOLM | It is myself I mean: in whom I know | 50 |
| 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 compared |
| With my confineless harms. |
MACDUFF | Not in the legions |
| Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd
|
| In evils to top Macbeth. |
MALCOLM | I grant him bloody, |
| Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, |
| Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin |
| That has a name: but there's no bottom, none, | 60 |
| In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, |
| Your matrons and your maids, could not fill up |
| The cistern of my lust, and my desire |
| All continent impediments would o'erbear |
| That did oppose my will: better Macbeth |
| Than such an one to reign. |
MACDUFF | 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 | 70 |
| Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, |
| And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. |
| We have willing dames enough: there cannot be |
| That vulture in you, to devour so many |
| As will to greatness dedicate themselves, |
| Finding it so inclined. |
MALCOLM | With this there grows |
| In my most ill-composed affection such |
| A stanchless avarice that, were I king, |
| I should cut off the nobles for their lands, |
| Desire his jewels and this other's house: | 80 |
| And my more-having would be as a sauce |
| To make me hunger more; that I should forge |
| Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, |
| Destroying them for wealth. |
MACDUFF | 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. | 90 |
MALCOLM | But I have none: the king-becoming graces, |
| As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, |
| Bounty, perseverance, 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 |
| Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, |
| Uproar the universal peace, confound |
| All unity on earth. |
MACDUFF | O Scotland, Scotland! | 100 |
MALCOLM | If such a one be fit to govern, speak: |
| I am as I have spoken. |
MACDUFF | 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, |
| 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 thee, |
| Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, | 110 |
| Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! |
| These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself |
| Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast, |
| Thy hope ends here! |
MALCOLM | 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 | 120 |
| 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 | 130 |
| 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 |
| Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? |
MACDUFF | Such welcome and unwelcome things at once |
| 'Tis hard to reconcile. |
[Enter a Doctor] |
MALCOLM | Well; more anon.--Comes the king forth, I pray you? | 140 |
Doctor | 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-- |
| They presently amend. |
MALCOLM | I thank you, doctor. |
[Exit Doctor] |
MACDUFF | What's the disease he means? |
MALCOLM | '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, | 150 |
| 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. |
[Enter ROSS] |
MACDUFF | See, who comes here? |
MALCOLM | My countryman; but yet I know him not. | 160 |
MACDUFF | My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. |
MALCOLM | I know him now. Good God, betimes remove |
| The means that makes us strangers! |
ROSS | Sir, amen. |
MACDUFF | Stands Scotland where it did? |
ROSS | 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 rend the air |
| Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems |
| A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell | 170 |
| Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives |
| Expire before the flowers in their caps, |
| Dying or ere they sicken. |
MACDUFF | O, relation |
| Too nice, and yet too true! |
MALCOLM | What's the newest grief? |
ROSS | That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker: |
| Each minute teems a new one. |
MACDUFF | How does my wife? |
ROSS | Why, well. |
MACDUFF | And all my children? |
ROSS | Well too. |
MACDUFF | The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? |
ROSS | No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. |
MACDUFF | But not a niggard of your speech: how goes't? | 180 |
ROSS | When I came hither to transport the tidings, |
| Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour |
| Of many worthy fellows that were out; |
| Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, |
| For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot: |
| Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland |
| Would create soldiers, make our women fight, |
| To doff their dire distresses. |
MALCOLM | Be't their comfort |
| We are coming thither: gracious England hath |
| Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; | 190 |
| An older and a better soldier none |
| That Christendom gives out. |
ROSS | 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. |
MACDUFF | What concern they? |
| The general cause? or is it a fee-grief |
| Due to some single breast? |
ROSS | No mind that's honest |
| But in it shares some woe; though the main part |
| Pertains to you alone. |
MACDUFF | If it be mine, |
| Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. | 200 |
ROSS | Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, |
| Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound |
| That ever yet they heard. |
MACDUFF | Hum! I guess at it. |
ROSS | Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes |
| Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner, |
| Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, |
| To add the death of you. |
MALCOLM | Merciful heaven! |
| What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; |
| Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak |
| Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break. | 210 |
MACDUFF | My children too? |
ROSS | Wife, children, servants, all |
| That could be found. |
MACDUFF | And I must be from thence! |
| My wife kill'd too? |
ROSS | I have said. |
MALCOLM | Be comforted: |
| Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, |
| To cure this deadly grief. |
MACDUFF | He has no children. All my pretty ones? |
| Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? |
| What, all my pretty chickens and their dam |
| At one fell swoop? |
MALCOLM | Dispute it like a man. |
MACDUFF | I shall do so; | 220 |
| But I must also feel it as a man: |
| I cannot but remember such things were, |
| That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on, |
| And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, |
| They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, |
| Not for their own demerits, but for mine, |
| Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now! |
MALCOLM | Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief |
| Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. |
MACDUFF | O, I could play the woman with mine eyes | 230 |
| And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens, |
| Cut short all intermission; front to front |
| Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; |
| Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, |
| Heaven forgive him too! |
MALCOLM | This tune goes manly. |
| Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; |
| Our lack is nothing but our leave; Macbeth |
| Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above |
| Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may: |
| The night is long that never finds the day. | 240 |
[Exeunt] |