Shakespeare's First Folio Part 566

Mac. Fit to gouern? No not to liue. O Natio[n] miserable!

With an vnt.i.tled Tyrant, b.l.o.o.d.y Sceptred, When shalt thou see thy wholsome dayes againe?

Since that the truest Issue of thy Throne By his owne Interdiction stands accust, And do's blaspheme his breed? Thy Royall Father Was a most Sainted-King: the Queene that bore thee, Oftner vpon her knees, then on her feet, Dy'de euery day she liu'd. Fare thee well, These Euils thou repeat'st vpon thy selfe, Hath banish'd me from Scotland. O my Brest, Thy hope ends heere

Mal. Macduff, this n.o.ble pa.s.sion Childe of integrity, hath from my soule Wip'd the blacke Scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good Truth, and Honor. Diuellish Macbeth, By many of these traines, hath sought to win me Into his power: and modest Wisedome pluckes me From ouer-credulous hast: but G.o.d aboue Deale betweene thee and me; For euen now I put my selfe to thy Direction, and Vnspeake mine owne detraction. Heere abiure The taints, and blames I laide vpon my selfe, For strangers to my Nature. I am yet Vnknowne to Woman, neuer was forsworne, Sca.r.s.ely haue coueted what was mine owne.

At no time broke my Faith, would not betray The Deuill to his Fellow, and delight No lesse in truth then life. My first false speaking Was this vpon my selfe. What I am truly Is thine, and my poore Countries to command: Whither indeed, before they heere approach Old Seyward with ten thousand warlike men Already at a point, was setting foorth: Now wee'l together, and the chance of goodnesse Be like our warranted Quarrell. Why are you silent?

Macd. Such welcome, and vnwelcom things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

Mal. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth I pray you?

Doct. I Sir: there are a crew of wretched Soules That stay his Cure: their malady conuinces The great a.s.say of Art. But at his touch, Such sanct.i.ty hath Heauen giuen his hand, They presently amend.

Enter.

Mal. I thanke you Doctor

Macd. What's the Disease he meanes?

Mal. Tis call'd the Euill.

A most myraculous worke in this good King, Which often since my heere remaine in England, I haue seene him do: How he solicites heauen Himselfe best knowes: but strangely visited people All swolne and Vlcerous, pittifull to the eye, The meere dispaire of Surgery, he cures, Hanging a golden stampe about their neckes, Put on with holy Prayers, and 'tis spoken To the succeeding Royalty he leaues The healing Benediction. With this strange vertue, He hath a heauenly guift of Prophesie, And sundry Blessings hang about his Throne, That speake him full of Grace.

Enter Rosse.

Macd. See who comes heere

Malc. My Countryman: but yet I know him not

Macd. My euer gentle Cozen, welcome hither

Malc. I know him now. Good G.o.d betimes remoue The meanes that makes vs Strangers

Rosse. Sir, Amen

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Rosse. Alas poore Countrey, Almost affraid to know it selfe. It cannot Be call'd our Mother, but our Graue; where nothing But who knowes nothing, is once seene to smile: Where sighes, and groanes, and shrieks that rent the ayre Are made, not mark'd: Where violent sorrow seemes A Moderne extasie: The Deadmans knell, Is there sca.r.s.e ask'd for who, and good mens liues Expire before the Flowers in their Caps, Dying, or ere they sicken

Macd. Oh Relation; too nice, and yet too true

Malc. What's the newest griefe?

Rosse. That of an houres age, doth hisse the speaker, Each minute teemes a new one

Macd. How do's my Wife?

Rosse. Why well

Macd. And all my Children?

Rosse. Well too

Macd. The Tyrant ha's not batter'd at their peace?

Rosse. No, they were wel at peace, when I did leaue 'em Macd. Be not a n.i.g.g.ard of your speech: How gos't?

Rosse. When I came hither to transport the Tydings Which I haue heauily borne, there ran a Rumour Of many worthy Fellowes, that were out, Which was to my beleefe witnest the rather, For that I saw the Tyrants Power a-foot.

Now is the time of helpe: your eye in Scotland Would create Soldiours, make our women fight, To doffe their dire distresses

Malc. Bee't their comfort We are comming thither: Gracious England hath Lent vs good Seyward, and ten thousand men, An older, and a better Souldier, none That Christendome giues out

Rosse. Would I could answer This comfort with the like. But I haue words That would be howl'd out in the desert ayre, Where hearing should not latch them

Macd. What concerne they, The generall cause, or is it a Fee-griefe Due to some single brest?

Rosse. No minde that's honest But in it shares some woe, though the maine part Pertaines to you alone

Macd. If it be mine Keepe it not from me, quickly let me haue it

Rosse. Let not your eares dispise my tongue for euer, Which shall possesse them with the heauiest sound that euer yet they heard

Macd. Humh: I guesse at it

Rosse. Your Castle is surpriz'd: your Wife, and Babes Sauagely slaughter'd: To relate the manner Were on the Quarry of these murther'd Deere To adde the death of you

Malc. Mercifull Heauen: What man, ne're pull your hat vpon your browes: Giue sorrow words; the griefe that do's not speake, Whispers the o're-fraught heart, and bids it breake

Macd. My Children too?

Ro. Wife, Children, Seruants, all that could be found

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

Rosse. I haue said

Malc. Be comforted.

Let's make vs Med'cines of our great Reuenge, To cure this deadly greefe

Macd. He ha's no Children. All my pretty ones?

Did you say All? Oh h.e.l.l-Kite! All?

What, All my pretty Chickens, and their Damme At one fell swoope?

Malc. Dispute it like a man

Macd. I shall do so: But I must also feele it as a man; I cannot but remember such things were That were most precious to me: Did heauen looke on, And would not take their part? Sinfull Macduff, They were all strooke for thee: Naught that I am, Not for their owne demerits, but for mine Fell slaughter on their soules: Heauen rest them now

Mal. Be this the Whetstone of your sword, let griefe Conuert 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 Heauens, Cut short all intermission: Front to Front, Bring thou this Fiend of Scotland, and my selfe Within my Swords length set him, if he scape Heauen forgiue him too

Mal. This time goes manly: Come go we to the King, our Power is ready, Our lacke is nothing but our leaue. Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the Powres aboue Put on their Instruments: Receiue what cheere you may, The Night is long, that neuer findes the Day.

Exeunt.

Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.

Enter a Doctor of Physicke, and a Wayting Gentlewoman.

Doct. I haue too Nights watch'd with you, but can perceiue no truth in your report. When was it shee last walk'd?

Gent. Since his Maiesty went into the Field, I haue seene her rise from her bed, throw her Night-Gown vppon her, vnlocke her Closset, take foorth paper, folde it, write vpon't, read it, afterwards Seale it, and againe returne to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleepe

Doct. A great perturbation in Nature, to receyue at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching.

In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actuall performances, what (at any time) haue you heard her say?

Gent. That Sir, which I will not report after her