MALCOLM |
Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there |
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Weep our sad bosoms empty. |
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MACDUFF |
Let us rather |
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Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men |
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Bestride our down–fall'n birthdom: each new morn |
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New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows |
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Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds |
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As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out |
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Like syllable of dolour. |
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MALCOLM |
What I believe I'll wail, |
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What know believe, and what I can redress, |
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As I shall find the time to friend, I will. |
10 |
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What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. |
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This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, |
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Was once thought honest: you have loved him well. |
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He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; |
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but something |
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You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom |
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To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb |
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To appease an angry god. |
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MACDUFF |
I am not treacherous. |
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MALCOLM |
But Macbeth is. |
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A good and virtuous nature may recoil |
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In an imperial charge. But I shall crave |
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your pardon; |
20 |
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That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose: |
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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell; |
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Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, |
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Yet grace must still look so. |
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MACDUFF |
I have lost my hopes. |
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MALCOLM |
Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. |
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Why in that rawness left you wife and child, |
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Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, |
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Without leave–taking? I pray you, |
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Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, |
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But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just, |
30 |
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Whatever I shall think. |
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MACDUFF |
Bleed, bleed, poor country! |
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Great tyranny! lay thou thy basis sure, |
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For goodness dare not cheque thee: wear thou |
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thy wrongs; |
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The title is affeer'd! Fare thee well, lord: |
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I would not be the villain that thou think'st |
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For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp, |
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And the rich East to boot. |
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MALCOLM |
Be not offended: |
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I speak not as in absolute fear of you. |
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I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; |
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It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash |
40 |
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Is added to her wounds: I think withal |
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There would be hands uplifted in my right; |
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And here from gracious England have I offer |
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Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, |
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When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, |
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Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country |
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Shall have more vices than it had before, |
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More suffer and more sundry ways than ever, |
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By him that shall succeed. |
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MACDUFF |
What should he be? |
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MALCOLM |
It is myself I mean: in whom I know |
50 |
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All the particulars of vice so grafted |
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That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth |
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Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state |
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Esteem him as a lamb, being compared |
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With my confineless harms. |
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MACDUFF |
Not in the legions |
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Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd |
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In evils to top Macbeth. |
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MALCOLM |
I grant him bloody, |
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Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, |
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Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin |
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That has a name: but there's no bottom, none, |
60 |
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In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, |
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Your matrons and your maids, could not fill up |
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The cistern of my lust, and my desire |
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All continent impediments would o'erbear |
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That did oppose my will: better Macbeth |
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Than such an one to reign. |
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MACDUFF |
Boundless intemperance |
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In nature is a tyranny; it hath been |
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The untimely emptying of the happy throne |
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And fall of many kings. But fear not yet |
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To take upon you what is yours: you may |
70 |
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Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, |
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And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. |
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We have willing dames enough: there cannot be |
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That vulture in you, to devour so many |
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As will to greatness dedicate themselves, |
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Finding it so inclined. |
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MALCOLM |
With this there grows |
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In my most ill–composed affection such |
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A stanchless avarice that, were I king, |
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I should cut off the nobles for their lands, |
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Desire his jewels and this other's house: |
80 |
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And my more–having would be as a sauce |
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To make me hunger more; that I should forge |
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Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, |
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Destroying them for wealth. |
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MACDUFF |
This avarice |
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Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root |
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Than summer–seeming lust, and it hath been |
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The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; |
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Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will. |
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Of your mere own: all these are portable, |
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With other graces weigh'd. |
90 |
MALCOLM |
But I have none: the king–becoming graces, |
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As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, |
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Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, |
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Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, |
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I have no relish of them, but abound |
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In the division of each several crime, |
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Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should |
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Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, |
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Uproar the universal peace, confound |
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All unity on earth. |
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MACDUFF |
O Scotland, Scotland! |
100 |
MALCOLM |
If such a one be fit to govern, speak: |
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I am as I have spoken. |
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MACDUFF |
Fit to govern! |
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No, not to live. O nation miserable, |
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With an untitled tyrant bloody–scepter'd, |
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When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, |
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Since that the truest issue of thy throne |
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By his own interdiction stands accursed, |
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And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father |
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Was a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee, |
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Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, |
110 |
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Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! |
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These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself |
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Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast, |
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Thy hope ends here! |
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MALCOLM |
Macduff, this noble passion, |
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Child of integrity, hath from my soul |
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Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts |
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To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth |
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By many of these trains hath sought to win me |
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Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me |
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From over–credulous haste: but God above |
120 |
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Deal between thee and me! for even now |
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I put myself to thy direction, and |
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Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure |
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The taints and blames I laid upon myself, |
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For strangers to my nature. I am yet |
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Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, |
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Scarcely have coveted what was mine own, |
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At no time broke my faith, would not betray |
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The devil to his fellow and delight |
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No less in truth than life: my first false speaking |
130 |
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Was this upon myself: what I am truly, |
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Is thine and my poor country's to command: |
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Whither indeed, before thy here–approach, |
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Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, |
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Already at a point, was setting forth. |
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Now we'll together; and the chance of goodness |
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Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? |
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MACDUFF |
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once |
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Tis hard to reconcile. |
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[Enter a Doctor] |
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MALCOLM |
Well; more anon.––Comes the king forth, I pray you? |
140 |
Doctor |
Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretched souls |
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That stay his cure: their malady convinces |
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The great assay of art; but at his touch–– |
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Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand–– |
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They presently amend. |
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MALCOLM |
I thank you, doctor. |
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[Exit Doctor] |
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MACDUFF |
What's the disease he means? |
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MALCOLM |
Tis call'd the evil: |
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A most miraculous work in this good king; |
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|
Which often, since my here–remain in England, |
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I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, |
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|
Himself best knows: but strangely–visited people, |
150 |
|
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, |
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The mere despair of surgery, he cures, |
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|
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, |
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|
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken, |
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|
To the succeeding royalty he leaves |
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|
The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, |
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He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, |
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And sundry blessings hang about his throne, |
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That speak him full of grace. |
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[Enter ROSS] |
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MACDUFF |
See, who comes here? |
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MALCOLM |
My countryman; but yet I know him not. |
160 |
MACDUFF |
My ever–gentle cousin, welcome hither. |
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MALCOLM |
I know him now. Good God, betimes remove |
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|
The means that makes us strangers! |
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ROSS |
Sir, amen. |
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MACDUFF |
Stands Scotland where it did? |
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ROSS |
Alas, poor country! |
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|
Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot |
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Be call'd our mother, but our grave; where nothing, |
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|
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; |
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|
Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air |
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|
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems |
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|
A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell |
170 |
|
Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives |
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|
Expire before the flowers in their caps, |
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Dying or ere they sicken. |
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MACDUFF |
O, relation |
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Too nice, and yet too true! |
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MALCOLM |
What's the newest grief? |
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ROSS |
That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker: |
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Each minute teems a new one. |
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MACDUFF |
How does my wife? |
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ROSS |
Why, well. |
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MACDUFF |
And all my children? |
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ROSS |
Well too. |
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MACDUFF |
The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? |
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ROSS |
No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. |
|
MACDUFF |
But not a niggard of your speech: how goes't? |
180 |
ROSS |
When I came hither to transport the tidings, |
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|
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour |
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|
Of many worthy fellows that were out; |
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|
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, |
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|
For that I saw the tyrant's power a–foot: |
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|
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland |
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|
Would create soldiers, make our women fight, |
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|
To doff their dire distresses. |
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MALCOLM |
Be't their comfort |
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|
We are coming thither: gracious England hath |
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|
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; |
190 |
|
An older and a better soldier none |
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|
That Christendom gives out. |
|
ROSS |
Would I could answer |
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|
This comfort with the like! But I have words |
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|
That would be howl'd out in the desert air, |
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|
Where hearing should not latch them. |
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MACDUFF |
What concern they? |
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|
The general cause? or is it a fee–grief |
|
|
Due to some single breast? |
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ROSS |
No mind that's honest |
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|
But in it shares some woe; though the main part |
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|
Pertains to you alone. |
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MACDUFF |
If it be mine, |
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|
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. |
200 |
ROSS |
Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, |
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|
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound |
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|
That ever yet they heard. |
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MACDUFF |
Hum! I guess at it. |
|
ROSS |
Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes |
|
|
Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner, |
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|
Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, |
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|
To add the death of you. |
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MALCOLM |
Merciful heaven! |
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|
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. |
210 |
MACDUFF |
My children too? |
|
ROSS |
Wife, children, servants, all |
|
|
That could be found. |
|
MACDUFF |
And I must be from thence! |
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|
My wife kill'd too? |
|
ROSS |
I have said. |
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MALCOLM |
Be comforted: |
|
|
Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, |
|
|
To cure this deadly grief. |
|
MACDUFF |
He has no children. All my pretty ones? |
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|
Did you say all? O hell–kite! All? |
|
|
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam |
|
|
At one fell swoop? |
|
MALCOLM |
Dispute it like a man. |
|
MACDUFF |
I shall do so; |
220 |
|
But I must also feel it as a man: |
|
|
I cannot but remember such things were, |
|
|
That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on, |
|
|
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, |
|
|
They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, |
|
|
Not for their own demerits, but for mine, |
|
|
Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now! |
|
MALCOLM |
Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief |
|
|
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. |
|
MACDUFF |
O, I could play the woman with mine eyes |
230 |
|
And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens, |
|
|
Cut short all intermission; front to front |
|
|
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; |
|
|
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, |
|
|
Heaven forgive him too! |
|
MALCOLM |
This tune goes manly. |
|
|
Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; |
|
|
Our lack is nothing but our leave; Macbeth |
|
|
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above |
|
|
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may: |
|
|
The night is long that never finds the day. |
240 |
[Exeunt] |
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