Internet Shakespeare Editions

Author: William Shakespeare
Editor: Anthony Dawson
Not Peer Reviewed

Macbeth (Folio 1, 1623)


The Tragedie of Macbeth.
147

These Euils thou repeat'st vpon thy selfe,
1940Hath banish'd me from Scotland. O my Brest,
Thy hope ends heere.
Mal. Macduff, this Noble passion
Childe of integrity, hath from my soule
Wip'd the blacke Scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts
1945To 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 God aboue
Deale betweene thee and me; For euen now
1950I 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,
1955Scarsely 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
1960Is 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
1965Be 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
1970I pray you?
Doct. I Sir: there are a crew of wretched Soules
That stay his Cure: their malady conuinces
The great assay of Art. But at his touch,
Such sanctity hath Heauen giuen his hand,
1975They presently amend.
Exit.
Mal. I thanke you Doctor.
Macd. What's the Disease he meanes?
Mal. Tis call'd the Euill.
A most myraculous worke in this good King,
1980Which often since my heere remaine in England,
I haue seene him do: How he solicites heauen
Himselfe best knowes: but strangely visited people
All swolne and Vlcerous, pittifull to the eye,
The meere dispaire of Surgery, he cures,
1985Hanging a golden stampe about their neckes,
Put on with holy Prayers, and 'tis spoken
To the succeeding Royalty he leaues
The healing Benediction. With this strange vertue,
He hath a heauenly guift of Prophesie,
1990And sundry Blessings hang about his Throne,
That speake him full of Grace.
Enter Rosse.
Macd. See who comes heere.
Malc. My Countryman: but yet I know him not.
1995Macd. My euer gentle Cozen, welcome hither.
Malc. I know him now. Good God betimes remoue
The meanes that makes vs Strangers.
Rosse. Sir, Amen.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
2000Rosse. Alas poore Countrey,
Almost affraid to know it selfe. It cannot
Be call'd our Mother, but our Graue; where nothing
But who knowes nothing, is once seene to smile:
Where sighes, and groanes, and shrieks that rent the ayre

2005Are made, not mark'd: Where violent sorrow seemes
A Moderne extasie: The Deadmans knell,
Is there scarse ask'd for who, and good mens liues
Expire before the Flowers in their Caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken.
2010Macd. Oh Relation; too nice, and yet too true.
Malc. What's the newest griefe?
Rosse. That of an houres age, doth hisse the speaker,
Each minute teemes a new one.
Macd. How do's my Wife?
2015Rosse. Why well.
Macd. And all my Children?
Rosse. Well too.
Macd. The Tyrant ha's not batter'd at their peace?
Rosse. No, they were wel at peace, when I did leaue 'em
2020Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: How gos't?
Rosse. When I came hither to transport the Tydings
Which I haue heauily borne, there ran a Rumour
Of many worthy Fellowes, that were out,
Which was to my beleefe witnest the rather,
2025For that I saw the Tyrants Power a-foot.
Now is the time of helpe: your eye in Scotland
Would create Soldiours, make our women fight,
To doffe their dire distresses.
Malc. Bee't their comfort
2030We are comming thither: Gracious England hath
Lent vs good Seyward, and ten thousand men,
An older, and a better Souldier, none
That Christendome giues out.
Rosse. Would I could answer
2035This comfort with the like. But I haue words
That would be howl'd out in the desert ayre,
Where hearing should not latch them.
Macd. What concerne they,
The generall cause, or is it a Fee-griefe
2040Due to some single brest?
Rosse. No minde that's honest
But in it shares some woe, though the maine part
Pertaines to you alone.
Macd. If it be mine
2045Keepe it not from me, quickly let me haue it.
Rosse. Let not your eares dispise my tongue for euer,
Which shall possesse them with the heauiest sound
That euer yet they heard.
Macd. Humh: I guesse at it.
2050Rosse. Your Castle is surpriz'd: your Wife, and Babes
Sauagely slaughter'd: To relate the manner
Were on the Quarry of these murther'd Deere
To adde the death of you.
Malc. Mercifull Heauen:
2055What man, ne're pull your hat vpon your browes:
Giue sorrow words; the griefe that do's not speake,
Whispers the o're-fraught heart, and bids it breake.
Macd. My Children too?
Ro. Wife, Children, Seruants, all that could be found.
2060Macd. And I must be from thence? My wife kil'd too?
Rosse. I haue said.
Malc. Be comforted.
Let's make vs Med'cines of our great Reuenge,
To cure this deadly greefe.
2065Macd. He ha's no Children. All my pretty ones?
Did you say All? Oh Hell-Kite! All?
What, All my pretty Chickens, and their Damme
At one fell swoope?
Malc. Dispute it like a man.
2070Macd. I shall do so:
But