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Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor Country,

Great Tyranny, lay thou thy Bafis fure,

For Goodnefs dares not check thee: wear thou thy wrongs,
The Title is afraid. Fare thee well, Lord,

I would not be the Villain that thou think'ft,
For the whole space that's in the Tyrant's Grafp,
And the rich Eaft to boot.

Mal. Be not offended;

I fpeak not as in abfolute fear of you:

I think our Country finks beneath the Yoak,
It weeps, it bleeds, and each new Day a Gash
Is added to her Wounds. I think withal,
There would be hands up-lifted in my right:
And here from gracious England have I offer
Of goodly thousands. But for all this,
When I mall 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 fuffer, and more furdry ways than ever,
By him that fhall fucceed.

Macd. What should he be ?

Mal. It is my felf I mean, in whom I know
All the particulars of Vice fo grafted,

That when they fhall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will feem as pure as Snow, and the poor State
Efteem him as a Lamb, being compar'd
With my confinelefs harms.

Macd. 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, Falfe, Deceitful,

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
That did oppofe my Will. Better Macbeth,
Than fuch an one to reign.

Macd

Macd. Boundless Intemperance
In Nature is a Tyranny; It hath been
Th' 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 spacious Plenty,

And yet feem cold. The time you may fo Hoodwink,
We have willing Dames enough, there cannot be
That Vulture in you, to devour fo many

As will to Greatnefs dedicate themselves,
Finding it fo inclin'd.

Mal. With this, there grows

In my moft ill-compos'd Affection, fuch
A ftanchlefs Avarice, that were I King,
I fhould cut off the Nobles for their Lands;
Defire his Jewels, and this other's House,
And my more-having would be as a Sawce
To make me hunger more; that I fhould forge
Quarrels unjust against the Good and Loyal,
Deftroying them for wealth.

Macd. This Avarice

Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious Root
Than Summer-feeming Luft; and it hath been
The Sword of our flain Kings: Yet do not fear,
Scotland hath Foyfons to fill up your Will
Of your mere Own. All thefe are portable,
With other Graces weigh'd.

Mal. But I have none, the King-becoming Graces,
As Juftice, Verity, Temp'rance, Stablenef,
Bounty, Perfeverance, Mercy, Lowliness,
Devotion, Patience, Courage, Fortitude;
I have no relifh of them, but abound
In the Divifion of each feveral Crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I fhould
Pour the fweet Milk of Concord into Hell,

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
Was a moft fainted King; the Queen that bore thee,
Oftner upon her Knees, than on her Feet,
Dy'd every Day the liv'd. Fare thee well,
Thefe Evils thou repeat'ft upon thy felf,
Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my Breaft,
Thy hope ends here.

Mal. Macduff, this noble Paffion,
Child of Integrity, hash from my Soul

Wip'd the black Scruples, reconcil'd my Thoughts
To thy good truth, and honour. Devillish Macbeth,
By many of thefe trains, hath fought to win me
Into his Power; and modest Wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte ; but God above
Deal between thee and me; for even now
I put my felf to thy direction, and
Unfpeak mine own detraction, here abjure
The taints, and blames I laid upon my self,
For ftrangers to my Nature. I am yet
Unknown to Women, never was forfworn,
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own,
At no time broke my Faith, would not betray
The Devil to his Fellow, and delight

No lefs in Truth than Life. My first false speaking
Was this upon my felf; what I am truly

Is thine, and my poor Country's to command:
Whither indeed, before thy here approach,
Old Seyward 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 filent?
Macd. Such welcome, and unwelcome things, at once,
'Tis hard to reconcile.

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?
Mal. 'Tis call'd the Evil,

A moft miraculous work in this good King,
Which often fince my here remain in England,
I have feen him do. How he folicits Heav'n,
Himself best knows; but ftrangely vifited People,
All fwoln and Ulcerous, pitiful to the Eye,
The mere defpair of Surgery, he cures,
Hanging a Golden Stamp about their Necks,
Put on with holy Prayers, and 'tis spoken
To the fucceeding Royalty he leaves

The healing Benediction; with this ftrange Virtue,
He hath a Heavenly Gift of Prophecy,

And fundry Bleffings hang about his Throne,
That speak him full of Grace.

Enter Roffe.

Macd. See, who comes here.

[Exit.

Mal. My Country-man; but yet I know him not.
Macd. My ever gentle Coufin, welcome hither.
Mal. I know him now. Good God betimes remove
The means, the means that makes us Strangers.

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,
But who knows nothing, is once feen to fmile:
Where Sighs and Groans, and Shrieks that rend the Air
Are made, not mark'd; where violent Sorrow feems
A modern ecftafie: the Dead-man's Knell,

Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good Mens lives-
Expire before the Flowers in their Caps,

Dying, or e'er they ficken.

Macd. Oh Relation! too nice, and yet too true.
Mal. What's the neweft Grief?

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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
Roffe. Well too.

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
Lent us good Seyward, and ten thousand Men,
An older, and a better Soldier, none
That Chriftendom gives out.

Roffe. Would I could answer

This comfort with the like. But I have words.
That would be howl'd out in the defart air,
Where hearing should not catch them.
Macd. What? concern they

The general Caufe? or is it a Fee-grief
Due to fome fingle Breaft?

Roffe. No Mind that's honeft

But in it shares fome woe, though the main part
Pertains to you alone.

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.

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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

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