Son. He'as kill'd me, mother.

Run away, pray you.

[Exit L. Macduff, crying Murther; Murtherers
purfue her.

SCENE changes to the King of England's
Palace.

Enter Malcolm and Macduff.

Mal. Weep our fad bofoms empty.

ET us feek out fome defolate shade, and there

Macd. Let us rather

Hold fast the mortal fword; and, like good men,
Bestride our downfal birth-doom: each new morn,
New widows howl, new orphans cry; new forrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it refounds

As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out

Like fyllables of dolour.

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 (22)

You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb,

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:

(22)

I'm young, but fomething

You may difcern of him through me, &c.] If the whole Tenour of the Context could not have convinced our blind Editors, that we ought to read deferve inftead of difcern, (as I have corrected in the Text,) yet Macduff's Answer, fure, might have given them fome light,- I am not treacherous.

That

That which you are, my thoughts cannot tranfpofe; Angels are bright ftill, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of Grace, Yet Grace muft look ftill fo.

Macd. I've loft my hopes.

Mal. Perchance, ey'n there, where I did find my
doubts.

Why in that rawnefs left you wife and children,
Thofe precious motives, thofe ftrong knots of love,
Without leave-taking? I

pray you, Let not my jealoufies be your difhonours,

But mine own fafeties: you may be rightly juft,
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 affear'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 grafp,
And the rich Eaft 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 gash.
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. But 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 fhall fucceed.

Macd. What fhould he be ?

Mal. It is my self I mean, in whom I know
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 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, falfe, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, fmacking of ev'ry fin

That has a name.

But there's no bottom, none,

In my voluptuoufnefs: your wives, vour 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. Boundlefs 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 pleafures in a fpacious plenty,
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 Greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it fo inclin'd.

Mal. With this, there grows,

In my moft ill-compos'd affection, fuch
A ftanchlefs 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 unjuft against the good and loyal,
Deftroying them for wealth.

Macd. This Avarice

Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root (23)

(23)

grows with more pernicious Root

Than

Than fummer-seeming Luft.], Mr. Warburton concurr'd with me in observing, that Summer-seeming has no Manner of

Senfe ::

Than 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.

Macd. 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
Pour the sweet milk of Concord into Hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

Macd. Oh Scotland! Scotland!

Mal. If fuch a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken.

Macd. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. O 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 most 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!
These evils, thou repeat'ft upon thy felf,

Have banish'd me from Scotland. Oh, my breaft!
Thy hope ends here.

Mal. Macduff, this noble Paffion,
Child of integrity, hath from my foul

Senfe: We therefore Both corrected conjecturally,

Than Summer-teeming Luft.

i. e. the Paffion, which lafts no longer than the Heat of Life, and which goes off in the Winter of Age. Besides, the Metaphor is much more just by our Emendation; for Summer is the Seafon in which Weeds get Strength, grow rank, and dilate themselves.

Wip'd the black fcruples; reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
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 felf 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 woman, never was forfworn,
Scarely 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 firft 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 the chance of goodness
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you filent?
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?

Doct. Ay, Sir; there are a crew of wretched fouls, That stay his Cure; their malady convinces

The great affay of Art. But, at his Touch,

Such fanctity hath heaven given his hand,

They presently amend.

Mal. I thank you, Doctor.

Macd. What's the Difeafe he means?
Mal. 'Tis call'd the Evil;

[Exit.

A moft miraculous Work in this good King,
Which often fince my here remain in England
I've seen him do. How he follicits heav'n,
Himself best knows; but strangely-vifited people,

All