Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor Country, Great Tyranny, lay thou thy Bafis fure, For Goodnefs dares not check thee: wear thou thy wrongs, I would not be the Villain that thou think'ft, Mal. Be not offended; I fpeak not as in abfolute fear of you: I think our Country finks beneath the Yoak, Macd. What should he be ? Mal. It is my felf I mean, in whom I know That when they fhall be open'd, black Macbeth Macd. Not in the Legions Of horrid Hell, can come a Devil more damn'd Mal. I grant him Bloody, Sudder, Malicious, fmoaking of every Sin That has a Name. But there's no bottom, none In my Voluptuoufnefs: Your Wives, your Daughters, Your Matrons, and your Maids, could not fill up The Cift.rn of my Luft, and my Defire A continent Impediments would o'er-bear Macd Macd. Boundless Intemperance And yet feem cold. The time you may fo Hoodwink, As will to Greatnefs dedicate themselves, Mal. With this, there grows In my moft ill-compos'd Affection, fuch Macd. This Avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious Root Mal. But I have none, the King-becoming Graces, Uproar the univerfal Peace, confound All unity on Earth. Macd. O Scotland! Scotland! Mal. If fuch a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken. T3 Afacd Macd. Fit to govern? No not to live. O Nation miferable! With an untitled Tyrant, bloody Sceptred, When fhalt thou fee thy wholfome Days again? Since that the trueft Iffue of thy Throne By his own Interdiction ftands accurft, And do's blafpheme his Breed thy Royal Father Mal. Macduff, this noble Paffion, Wip'd the black Scruples, reconcil'd my Thoughts No lefs in Truth than Life. My first false speaking Is thine, and my poor Country's to command: Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness Enter a Doctor. Mal. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth, I pray you? Doct. Doct. Ay Sir; there are a Crew of wretched Souls That ftay his Cure; their Malady convinces But at his touch, Such fan&tity hath Heav'n given his Hand, The great Affay of Art. They presently amend. Mal. I thank you, Doctor. Macd. What's the Difeafe he means? A moft miraculous work in this good King, The healing Benediction; with this ftrange Virtue, And fundry Bleffings hang about his Throne, Enter Roffe. Macd. See, who comes here. [Exit. Mal. My Country-man; but yet I know him not. Roffe. Sir, Amen. Macd. Stands Scotland where it did? Roffe. Alas poor Country, Almoft afraid to know it felf. It cannot Be call'd our Mother, but our Grave; where nothing, Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good Mens lives- Dying, or e'er they ficken. Macd. Oh Relation! too nice, and yet too true. Roffe. That of an hours Age doth hifs the Speaker, Each minute teems a new one. Macd. How does my Wife? Roffe. Why, well. Macd. And all my Children? Macd. The Tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? Roffe. No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. Macd. Be not a niggard of your Speech: how goes it? Roffe. When I came hither to transport the Tidings Which I have heavily born, there ran a Rumour Of many worthy Fellows, that were out, Which was to my belief witneft the rather, For that I faw 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 diftreffes. Mal. Be't their comfort We are coming thither: Gracious England hath Roffe. Would I could answer This comfort with the like. But I have words. The general Caufe? or is it a Fee-grief Roffe. No Mind that's honeft But in it shares fome woe, though the main part Macd. If it be mine Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. Roffe. Let not your Ears defpife my Tongue for ever, Which fhall poffefs them with the heavieft found Tha ever yet they hard. Macd. Hum! I guess at it. Roffe. Your Caftle is furpriz'd, your Wife and Babes Savagely flaughter'd; to relate the manner, Were, on the Quarry of these murther'd Deer, To |