And my more-having would bé as a fauce, MACd. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root, Of your meer own: All these are portable, MAL. But I have none: The king-becoming graces, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. Maca. O, Scotland, Scotland! MAL. If fuch a one be fit to govern, fpeak : I am as I have spoken. MAC. Fit to govern! No, not to live. — O nation miserable, With an untitl'd tyrant bloody-fcepter'd, By his own interdiction ftands accurft, And does blafpheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most fainted king; the queen, that bore thee, 7 Summer-feeming Oftner upon her knees than on her feet, MAL. Macduff, this noble paffion, Child of integrity, hath from my foul Wip'd the black fcruples, reconcil'd my thoughts No lefs in truth, than life: my firft falfe-speaking Is thine, and my poor country's, to command: Now we'll together; And the chance, of goodness, Enter a Doctor. 27 Already MAL. Well, more anon. Comes the king forth, I pray Doc. Ay, fir: there are a crew of wretched fouls, [you? That ftay 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 disease he means? MAL. 'Tis call'd, the evil : [Exit Doctor. A moft miraculous work in this good king; The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, And fundry bleffings hang about his throne, 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 remove The means that makes us ftrangers! Ros. Sir, amen. MACd. Stands Scotland where it did? Ros. Alas, poor country; Almoft afraid to know itself! It cannot VOL. IV. A a Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing, Is there scarce afk'd, for who; and good men's lives Dying, or ere they ficken. MAC. O, relation, Too nice, and yet too true! MAL. What is the newest grief? Ros. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. MAC. How does my wife? Ros. Why, well. MACd. And all my children? MAC. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?[them. MAL. Be it their comfort, We are coming thither: gracious England hath That Christendom gives out. Ros. Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words, The general cause? or is it a fee grief, Ros. No mind, that's honest, But in it shares fome woe; though the main part MACd. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. Ros. Let not your ears defpise my tongue for ever, Which fhall possefs them with the heaviest found That ever yet they heard. MAC. Hum! I guess at it. Ros. Your caftle is furpriz'd; your wife, and babes, Savagely flaughter'd: to relate the manner, Were, on the quarry of these murther'd deer, To add the death of you. MAL. Merciful heaven! What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Ros. Wife, children, fervants, all That could be found. MACd. And I must be from thence! My wife kill'd too? Ros. I have faid. MAL. Be comforted: |