The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 319

LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor and must be hanged.

SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?

LADY MACDUFF. Everyone.

SON. Who must hang them?

LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men.

SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.

LADY MACDUFF. Now, G.o.d help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father?

SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him; if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.

LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st!

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect.

I doubt some danger does approach you nearly.

If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones.

To fright you thus, methinks I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!

I dare abide no longer. Exit.

LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly?

I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defense, To say I have done no harm -What are these faces?

Enter Murtherers.

FIRST MURTHERER. Where is your husband?

LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him.

FIRST MURTHERER. He's a traitor.

SON. Thou liest, thou s.h.a.g-ear'd villain!

FIRST MURTHERER. What, you egg!

Stabs him.

Young fry of treachery!

SON. He has kill'd me, Mother.

Run away, I pray you! Dies.

Exit Lady Macduff, crying "Murther!"

Exeunt Murtherers, following her.

SCENE III.

England. Before the King's palace.

Enter Malcolm and Macduff.

MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty.

MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our downfall'n birthdom. Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out Like syllable of dolor.

MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wall; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will.

What you have spoke, it may be so perchance.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest. You have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young, but something You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry G.o.d.

MACDUFF. I am not treacherous.

MALCOLM. But Macbeth is.

A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so.

MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes.

MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts.

Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking? I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonors, But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think.

MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country!

Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee. Wear thou thy wrongs; The t.i.tle is affeer'd. Fare thee well, lord.

I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole s.p.a.ce that's in the tyrant's grasp And the rich East to boot.

MALCOLM. Be not offended; I speak not as in absolute fear of you.

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think withal There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here from gracious England have I offer Of goodly thousands. But for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before, More suffer and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed.

MACDUFF. What should he be?

MALCOLM. It is myself I mean, in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compared With my confineless harms.

MACDUFF. Not in the legions Of horrid h.e.l.l can come a devil more d.a.m.n'd In evils to top Macbeth.

MALCOLM. I grant him b.l.o.o.d.y, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin 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 cestern of my l.u.s.t, and my desire All continent impediments would o'erbear That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth Than such an one to reign.

MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The 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 s.p.a.cious plenty And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.

We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclined.

MALCOLM. With this there grows In my most ill-composed affection such A stanchless avarice that, were I King, I should cut off the n.o.bles for their lands, Desire his jewels and this other's house, And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more, that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.

MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming l.u.s.t, and it hath been The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will Of your mere own. All these are portable, With other graces weigh'd.

MALCOLM. But I have none. The king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fort.i.tude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into h.e.l.l, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.

MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland!

MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak.

I am as I have spoken.

MACDUFF. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. O nation miserable!

With an unt.i.tled tyrant b.l.o.o.d.y-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accursed And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee, Oftener 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, Thy hope ends here!

MALCOLM. Macduff, this n.o.ble pa.s.sion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts To thy good truth and honor. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste. But G.o.d above Deal between thee and me! For even now I put myself to thy direction and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet 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 Already at a point, was setting forth.

Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?

MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

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

DOCTOR. Ay, sir, there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure. Their malady convinces The great a.s.say of art, but at his touch, Such sanct.i.ty hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend.

MALCOLM. I thank you, Doctor. Exit Doctor.

MACDUFF. What's the disease he means?

MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil: A most miraculous work in this good King, Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people, All swol'n 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.

Enter Ross.

MACDUFF. See, who comes here?

MALCOLM. My countryman, but yet I know him not.

MACDUFF. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither.

MALCOLM. I know him now. Good G.o.d, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers!

ROSS. Sir, amen.

MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did?

ROSS. Alas, poor country, Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave. Where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air, Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy. The dead man's knell Is there scarce ask'd for who, and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken.

MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true!

MALCOLM. What's the newest grief?