In an imperial charge. But 'crave your pardon; Macd. I have lost my hopes. Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left your wife 52, and child, (Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,) Without leave-taking?—I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, But mine own safeties:-You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think. Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, Thy title is affeer'd 53 !-Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think'st, For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp, Mal. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think, our country sinks beneath the yoke; When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Macd. What should he be ? Mal. It is myself I mean: in whom I know That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth With my confineless harms. Macd. poor state 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, All continent impediments would o'er-bear, Macd. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny: it hath been Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold, the time you may so hood-wink. As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Mal. With this, there grows, In my most ill-compos'd affection, such Macd. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Of your mere own: all these are portable, Mal. But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perséverance, mercy, lowliness, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal All unity on earth. Macd. O Scotland! Scotland! Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken. Macd. Fit to govern! No, not to live.-O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again? By his own interdiction stands accurs'd, And does blaspheme his breed?-Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen, that bore thee, Oftner 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, Mal. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; No less in truth, than life: my first false speaking Now we'll together; and the chance, of goodness, Enter a Doctor. Mal. Well; more anon.-Comes the king forth, I pray you? Doct. Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls, That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but, at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, Mal. I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor. Macd. What's the disease he means? "Tis call'd the evil : A most miraculous work in this good king; |