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Uproar the universal peace, confound
Macd. O Scotland! Scotland!
Mai. 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,
Mai. Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Unknown to woman; never was forsworn;
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own;
At no time broke my faith; would not betray
The devil to his fellow; and delight
No less in truth, than life: my first 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 ready at a point, was setting forth:
Now we'll together; and the chance, of goodness,
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?
Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once, 'Tis hard to reconcile.
Enter a Doctor.
Mai. 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, They presently amend.
Mai. I thank you, doctor.
Macd. What's the disease he means?
Mai. Tis call'd the evil:
A most miraculous work in this good king;
Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people,
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures;
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,
To the succeeding royalty he leaves
The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;
And sundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full of grace.
Macd. See, who comes here?
Mai. My countryman; but yet I know him not14;
Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
Mai. I know him now: Good God, betimes
remove The means that make us strangers!
Rosse. Sir, Amen.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Rosse. Alas, poor country;
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Macd. O, relation,
Too nice, and yet too true!
Mai. What is the newest grief?
Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one.
Macd. How does my wife?
Rosse. Why, well.
Macd. And all my children?
Rosse. Well too.
Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? .
Rosse. No; they were well at peace, when I did leave them.
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech; How; goes it?
Rosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings. Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot: Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses.
Mai. Be it their comfort,
We are coming thither: gracious England hath
Rosse. 'Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words,
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Macd. What concern they?
The general cause? or is it a fee-grief,
Rosse. No mind, that's honest,
But in it shares some woe; though the main part
Macd. If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound, That ever yet they heard.
Macd. Humph! I guess at it.
Rosse. Your castle is surpriz'd; your wife, and
Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
Mai. Merciful heaven !—
What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak, Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Macd. My children too?
Rosse. Wife, children, servants, all
That could be found.
Macd. And I must be from thence!
My wife kill'd too?