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  • Title: Macbeth (Folio 1, 1623)
  • Editor: Anthony Dawson

    • ISBN: 978-1-55058-528-5

    Copyright Anthony Dawson. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Anthony Dawson
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Macbeth (Folio 1, 1623)

    Scaena Tertia.
    Enter Malcolme and Macduffe.
    Mal. Let vs seeke out some desolate shade, & there
    1815Weepe 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
    1820Strike 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,
    1825As 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
    1830You may discerne of him through me, and wisedome
    To offer vp a weake, poore innocent Lambe
    T'appease an angry God.
    Macd. I am not treacherous.
    Malc. But Macbeth is.
    1835A 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
    1840Yet 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?
    1845Those 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.
    1850Macd. Bleed, bleed poore Country,
    Great Tyrrany, lay thou thy basis sure,
    For goodnesse dare not check thee: wear yu thy wrongs,
    The Title, is affear'd. Far thee well Lord,
    I would not be the Villaine that thou think'st,
    1855For the whole Space 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,
    1860It 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,
    1865When 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.
    1870Macd. 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
    1875Esteeme him as a Lambe, being compar'd
    With my confinelesse harmes.
    Macd. Not in the Legions
    Of horrid Hell, can come a Diuell more damn'd
    In euils, to top Macbeth.
    1880Mal. I grant him Bloody,
    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,
    1885Your Matrons, and your Maides, could not fill vp
    The Cesterne of my Lust, and my Desire
    All continent Impediments would ore-beare
    That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth,
    Then such an one to reigne.
    1890Macd. 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
    1895Conuey your pleasures in a spacious 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,
    1900Finding it so inclinde.
    Mal. With this, there growes
    In my most ill-compos'd Affection, such
    A stanchlesse Auarice, that were I King,
    I should cut off the Nobles for their Lands,
    1905Desire 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.
    1910Macd. This Auarice
    stickes deeper: growes with more pernicious roote
    Then Summer-seeming Lust: and it hath bin
    The Sword of our slaine Kings: yet do not feare,
    Scotland hath Foysons, to fill vp your will
    1915Of 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,
    1920Deuotion, Patience, Courage, Fortitude,
    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 Hell,
    1925Vprore 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.
    1930Mac. Fit to gouern? No not to liue. O Natiõ miserable!
    With an vntitled Tyrant, bloody Sceptred,
    When shalt thou see thy wholsome dayes againe?
    Since that the truest Issue of thy Throne
    By his owne Interdiction stands accust,
    1935And 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
    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:
    Nn2 But
    148 The Tragedie of Macbeth.
    But I must also feele it as a man;
    I cannot but remember such things were
    That were most precious to me: Did heauen looke on,
    And would not take their part? Sinfull Macduff,
    2075They were all strooke for thee: Naught that I am,
    Not for their owne demerits, but for mine
    Fell slaughter on their soules: Heauen rest them now.
    Mal. Be this the Whetstone of your sword, let griefe
    Conuert to anger: blunt not the heart, enrage it.
    2080Macd. O I could play the woman with mine eyes,
    And Braggart with my tongue. But gentle Heauens,
    Cut short all intermission: Front to Front,
    Bring thou this Fiend of Scotland, and my selfe
    Within my Swords length set him, if he scape
    2085Heauen forgiue him too.
    Mal. This time goes manly:
    Come go we to the King, our Power is ready,
    Our lacke is nothing but our leaue. Macbeth
    Is ripe for shaking, and the Powres aboue
    2090Put on their Instruments: Receiue what cheere you may,
    The Night is long, that neuer findes the Day. Exeunt
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