Part 7 (1/2)

Mes. Blesse you faire Dame: I am not to you known, Though in your state of Honor I am perfect; I doubt some danger do's approach you neerely.

If you will take a homely mans aduice, Be not found heere: Hence with your little ones To fright you thus. Me thinkes I am too sauage: To do worse to you, were fell Cruelty, Which is too nie your person. Heauen preserue you, I dare abide no longer.

Exit Messenger

Wife. Whether should I flye?

I haue done no harme. But I remember now I am in this earthly world: where to do harme Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then (alas) Do I put vp that womanly defence, To say I haue done no harme?

What are these faces?

Enter Murtherers.

Mur. Where is your Husband?

Wife. I hope in no place so vnsanctified, Where such as thou may'st finde him Mur. He's a Traitor

Son. Thou ly'st thou s.h.a.gge-ear'd Villaine

Mur. What you Egge?

Yong fry of Treachery?

Son. He ha's kill'd me Mother, Run away I pray you.

Exit crying Murther.

Scaena Tertia.

Enter Malcolme and Macduffe.

Mal. Let vs seeke out some desolate shade, & there Weepe our sad bosomes empty Macd. Let vs rather Hold fast the mortall Sword: and like good men, Bestride our downfall Birthdome: each new Morne, New Widdowes howle, new Orphans cry, new sorowes Strike heauen on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like Syllable of Dolour Mal. What I beleeue, Ile waile; What know, beleeue; and what I can redresse, As I shall finde the time to friend: I wil.

What you haue spoke, it may be so perchance.

This Tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you haue lou'd him well, He hath not touch'd you yet. I am yong, but something You may discerne of him through me, and wisedome To offer vp a weake, poore innocent Lambe T' appease an angry G.o.d Macd. I am not treacherous

Malc. But Macbeth is.

A good and vertuous Nature may recoyle In an Imperiall charge. But I shall craue your pardon: That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose; Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

Though all things foule, would wear the brows of grace Yet Grace must still looke so Macd. I haue lost my Hopes

Malc. Perchance euen there Where I did finde my doubts.

Why in that rawnesse left you Wife, and Childe?

Those precious Motiues, those strong knots of Loue, Without leaue-taking. I pray you, Let not my Iealousies, be your Dishonors, But mine owne Safeties: you may be rightly iust, What euer I shall thinke Macd. Bleed, bleed poore Country, Great Tyrrany, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodnesse dare not check thee: wear y thy wrongs, The t.i.tle, is affear'd. Far thee well Lord, I would not be the Villaine that thou think'st, For the whole s.p.a.ce that's in the Tyrants Graspe, And the rich East to boot Mal. Be not offended: I speake not as in absolute feare of you: I thinke our Country sinkes beneath the yoake, It weepes, it bleeds, and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I thinke withall, There would be hands vplifted in my right: And heere from gracious England haue I offer Of goodly thousands. But for all this, When I shall treade vpon the Tyrants head, Or weare it on my Sword; yet my poore Country Shall haue more vices then it had before, More suffer, and more sundry wayes then euer, By him that shall succeede Macd. What should he be?

Mal. It is my selfe I meane: in whom I know All the particulars of Vice so grafted, That when they shall be open'd, blacke Macbeth Will seeme as pure as Snow, and the poore State Esteeme him as a Lambe, being compar'd With my confinelesse harmes Macd. Not in the Legions Of horrid h.e.l.l, can come a Diuell more d.a.m.n'd In euils, to top Macbeth Mal. I grant him b.l.o.o.d.y, Luxurious, Auaricious, False, Deceitfull, Sodaine, Malicious, smacking of euery sinne That ha's a name. But there's no bottome, none In my Voluptuousnesse: Your Wiues, your Daughters, Your Matrons, and your Maides, could not fill vp The Cesterne of my l.u.s.t, and my Desire All continent Impediments would ore-beare That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth, Then such an one to reigne Macd. Boundlesse intemperance In Nature is a Tyranny: It hath beene Th' vntimely emptying of the happy Throne, And fall of many Kings. But feare not yet To take vpon you what is yours: you may Conuey your pleasures in a s.p.a.cious plenty, And yet seeme cold. The time you may so hoodwinke: We haue willing Dames enough: there cannot be That Vulture in you, to deuoure so many As will to Greatnesse dedicate themselues, Finding it so inclinde Mal. With this, there growes In my most ill-composd Affection, such A stanchlesse Auarice, that were I King, I should cut off the n.o.bles for their Lands, Desire his Iewels, and this others House, And my more-hauing, would be as a Sawce To make me hunger more, that I should forge Quarrels vniust against the Good and Loyall, Destroying them for wealth Macd. This Auarice stickes deeper: growes with more pernicious roote Then Summer-seeming l.u.s.t: and it hath bin The Sword of our slaine Kings: yet do not feare, Scotland hath Foysons, to fill vp your will Of your meere Owne. All these are portable, With other Graces weigh'd Mal. But I haue none. The King-becoming Graces, As Iustice, Verity, Temp'rance, Stablenesse, Bounty, Perseuerance, Mercy, Lowlinesse, Deuotion, Patience, Courage, Fort.i.tude, I haue no rellish of them, but abound In the diuision of each seuerall Crime, Acting it many wayes. Nay, had I powre, I should Poure the sweet Milke of Concord, into h.e.l.l, Vprore the vniuersall peace, confound All vnity on earth Macd. O Scotland, Scotland

Mal. If such a one be fit to gouerne, speake: I am as I haue spoken Mac. Fit to gouern? No not to liue. O Natio[n] miserable!

With an vnt.i.tled Tyrant, b.l.o.o.d.y Sceptred, When shalt thou see thy wholsome dayes againe?

Since that the truest Issue of thy Throne By his owne Interdiction stands accust, And do's blaspheme his breed? Thy Royall Father Was a most Sainted-King: the Queene that bore thee, Oftner vpon her knees, then on her feet, Dy'de euery day she liu'd. Fare thee well, These Euils thou repeat'st vpon thy selfe, Hath banish'd me from Scotland. O my Brest, Thy hope ends heere Mal. Macduff, this n.o.ble pa.s.sion Childe of integrity, hath from my soule Wip'd the blacke Scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good Truth, and Honor. Diuellish Macbeth, By many of these traines, hath sought to win me Into his power: and modest Wisedome pluckes me From ouer-credulous hast: but G.o.d aboue Deale betweene thee and me; For euen now I put my selfe to thy Direction, and Vnspeake mine owne detraction. Heere abiure The taints, and blames I laide vpon my selfe, For strangers to my Nature. I am yet Vnknowne to Woman, neuer was forsworne, Sca.r.s.ely haue coueted what was mine owne.

At no time broke my Faith, would not betray The Deuill to his Fellow, and delight No lesse in truth then life. My first false speaking Was this vpon my selfe. What I am truly Is thine, and my poore Countries to command: Whither indeed, before they heere approach Old Seyward with ten thousand warlike men Already at a point, was setting foorth: Now wee'l together, and the chance of goodnesse Be like our warranted Quarrell. Why are you silent?

Macd. Such welcome, and vnwelcom things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

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

Doct. I Sir: there are a crew of wretched Soules That stay his Cure: their malady conuinces The great a.s.say of Art. But at his touch, Such sanct.i.ty hath Heauen giuen his hand, They presently amend.

Enter.

Mal. I thanke you Doctor

Macd. What's the Disease he meanes?