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.

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 confincless 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,
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 a one to reign.

Mucd. 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, [wink. And yet seem cold, the time you may so boodWe have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin'd.

Mal. With this, there grows, In my most ill-compos'd 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: 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.

Maca. This avarice

Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root
Than summer-seeding lust: and it hath been
The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foysons to fill up your wiil,
Of your mere own: all these are portable,
With other graces weigh'd.

Mal. But I have none: the king-becoming
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, [graces,
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.

No, not to live.-O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptred,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again?
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accurs'd,
And does blaspheme his brced?—Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king; the queen, that bore thes,
Oft'ner 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.
Thy hope ends here!

Mal. Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my sou

Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd 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
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 irst false speaking
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 qua rel! Why are you silent?
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? [souls, Doct. Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched 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.

[exit Doct.

Mal. I thank you, doctor.
Macd. What is the disease he means?
Mal. '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,
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 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 The means that make us strangers! [remove 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, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air,

Rosse. No mind, that's honest,

But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone.

Macd. If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. [ever, Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard.

Macd. Humph! I guess at it.

Rosse. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife and Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner, [babes Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, To add the death of you.

Mal. Merciful heaven!-

What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows, Give sorrow wor: the grief, that does not speak,

Rosse. Why, well.

Macd. And all my children?
Rosse. Well, too.

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?
Rosse. No; they were well at peace, when I did
leave them.
[goes it?
Macd. Be not a niggurd of your speech. How
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;
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.

Mal. Be it their comfort,

We are coming thither: gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men ;
An older, and a better soldler, none,
That Christendom gives out.

Rosse. 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.
Macd. What concern they?

The general cause? or is it a fee-grief,
Due to some single breast?

Macd. My children too?

Rosse. Wife, children, servants, all That could be found.

Macd. And I must be from thence My wife kill'd too?

Rosse. I have said.

Mal. Be comforted:

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.

Macd. 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?

Mal. Dispute it like a man.
Macd. I shall do so;

But I must also feel it as a man:

[on,

I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.-Did heaven look
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, [now.
Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest ther

Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief

Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heaven,

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!

Mal. This tune goes manly.

Enter a Messenger.

Macb. Thou wast born of woman.

I shall report that which I say I But know not how to do it. Macb. Well, say, sir.

saw,

Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move.

Macb. Liar, and slave!

[striking him.

Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so: Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove.

Macb. If thou speak'st false,

Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
'Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,
I care not if thou dost for me as much.—
I pull in resolution; and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend,
That lies like truth: Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane;-and now, a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane.-Arm, arm, and out!
If this, which he avouches, does appear,
There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here.
I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun,

And wish the estate o'the world were now undone.

Ring the alarum bell:-Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. [exeunt.

Macd. That way the noise is:-Tyrant, show

thy face:

If thou be'st slain, and with no stroke of mine,
My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still.
I cannot strike at wretched kernes, whose arms
Are hir'd to bear their staves; either thou, Macbeth,
Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge,'
I sheath again undeeded. There thou should'st be;
By this great clatter, one of greatest note
Seems bruited: Let me find him, fortune!
And more I beg not.
[exit; alarum.
Enter Malcolm and old Siward.
Siw. This way, my lord ;-the castle's gently

render'd:

The tyrant's people on both sides do fight;
The noble thanes do bravely in the war;
The day almost itself professes yours,
And little is to do.

Mal. We have met with foes
That strike beside us.

Siw. Enter, sir, the castle. [exeunt; alarums. Re-enter Macbeth.

Mach. Why should I play the Roman fool, and

die

On my own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.

Re-enter Macduff.

Macd. Turn, hell-hound, turn!

Macb. Of all men else I have avoided thee But get thee back, my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already.

Macd. I have no words,

My voice is in my sword; thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! [they fight.

Macb. Thou losest labour:
As easy may'st thou the intrenchant air
With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed:
Let fall thy blade un vulnerable crests;

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield
To one of woman born.

Macd. Despair thy charm;

And let the angel, whom thou still hast serv'd, Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd.

Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so
For it hath cow'd my better part of man!
And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to our ear,
And break it to our hope.-I'll not fight with thee.
Macd. Then yield thee, coward,

And live to be the show and gaze o'the time.
We'll have thec, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole; and underwrit,
Here may you see the tyrant.

Macb. I'll not yield,

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,
And to be baited with the rabble's curse.
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last. Before my body