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 fpoke, 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, 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:
That which you are, my thoughts cannot tranfpose;
Angels are bright ftill, though the brighteft fell:
Though all things foul would bear the brows of
Yet Grace muft look fill fo.

Macd. I've loft my hopes.

[Grace,

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

doubts.

Why in that rawness left you wife and children, Thofe precious motives, those 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 Basis fure,

[wrongs,

For goodness dares not check thee! Wear thou thy

what is infinuated under it is noble; that the Portents and Prodigies in the Skies, of which mention is made before, fhewed that Heaven fympathifed with Scotland.

You may Difcern of him through me,- -] By Macduff's Answer it appears we should read,

-Deferve of him

*His title is affear'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 grafp,

And the rich East to boot.

Mal. Be not offended;

I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think, our country finks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gafh
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. 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 should he be?

Mal. It is myfelf I mean, in whom I know
All the particulars of vice fo grafted,

That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will feem as pure as fnow, and the

poor

Efteem him as a lamb, being compar'd

With my confineless harms.

Macd. Not in the legions

State

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 voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
The ciftern of my luft; and my desire

All continent impediments would o'er-bear,
That did oppose my will.

Better Macbeth,

* His title is affear'd.-] Affear'd, a Law-term for confirmed.-

Mr. Pope.

Than

2

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 spacious 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 so 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 flanchless Avarice, that, were I King,
I fhould cut off the Nobles for their lands;
Defire his jewels, and this other's house;
And my more-having would be as a fauce
To make me hunger more; that I fhould forge
Quarrels unjuft against the good and loyal,
Deftroying them for wealth.

Macd. This Avarice

Strikes deeper; grows with more pernicious root
Than fummer-teeming luft; and it hath been
The Sword of our flain Kings: yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foifons, to fill up your will,
Of your mere own. All thefe 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 relifh of them, but abound
In the divifion of each several crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the fweet milk of Concord into Hell,

Uproar the universal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

Macd.

Macd. Oh Scotland! Scotland!

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

Maed. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. O nation miferable,
With an untitled tyrant, bloody-scepter'd!"
When fhalt thou fee thy wholefome days again?
Since that the trueft Iffue of thy Throne

By his own interdiction stands accurst,

And does blafpheme his Breed. Thy royal father
Was a moft fainted King; the Queen, that boret hee,
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,
Dy'd ever yday fhe liv'd. Oh, fare thee well!
Thefe evils, thou repeat'ft upon thyself,

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

Mal. Macduff, this noble Paffion,

Child of integrity, hath from my foul

breast!

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 modest wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte; But God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and
Unfpeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself,
For ftrangers to my nature.
I am yet

Unknown to woman, never was 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 firft 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

**All ready at appoint, was setting forth.

Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness,
Be like our warrented quarrel! Why are you filent?
Macd. Such welcome, and unwelcome things at

once;

'Tis hard to reconcile.

SCENE

Enter a Dodor.

V.

Mal. WELL; more anon. Comes the King forth,

pray you ?

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 heaven given his hand,

They prefently amend.

Mal. I thank you, Doctor.

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

[Exit.

A most miraculous Work in this good King,
Which often fince may here remain in England
I've seen him do. How he folicits heav'n,
Himself best knows; but ftrangely-vifited people,
All fwoln and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of furgery, he cures ;
Hanging a golden Stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis fpoken,
To the fucceeding Royalty he leaves

The healing Benediction. With this ftrange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of Prophecy;

And fundry bleffings hang about his Throne,
That speak him full of Grace.

All ready at A point.] At a point, may mean all ready at a Time; but Shakespear meant more: He meant both Time and Place, and certainly wrote, All ready at appoint,

i. e. At the Place appointed, at the Rendezvous.

Warb. SCENE