Let us seek out some desolate shade and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty. Let us rather
4.3.31817Hold fast the mortal sword and, like good men,
4.3.41818Bestride our downfall birthdom. Each new morn
4.3.51819New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows
4.3.61820Strike heaven on the face that it resounds
4.3.71821As if it felt with Scotland and yelled out
Like syllable of dolor. What I believe, I'll wail;
4.3.101824What know, believe; and what I can redress,
4.3.111825As I shall find the time to friend, I will.
4.3.121826What you have spoke, it may be so perchance.
4.3.131827This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
4.3.141828Was once thought honest; you have loved him well--
4.3.151829He hath not touched you yet. I am young, but something
4.3.161830You may discern of him through me, and wisdom
I am not treacherous.
I am not treacherous. But Macbeth is.
4.3.211836In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon,
4.3.221837That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose;
4.3.231838Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
4.3.241839Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace must still look so. I have lost my hopes.
Perchance even there
1843where I did find my doubts.
4.3.271844Why in that rawness left you wife and child,
4.3.281845Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,
4.3.301847Let not my jealousies be your dishonors,
4.3.311848But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think. Bleed, bleed poor country.
4.3.341852For goodness dare not check thee; wear thou thy wrongs,
4.3.351853The title is affeered. Fare thee well, lord,
4.3.361854I would not be the villain that thou think'st
4.3.371855For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp
And the rich East to boot. Be not offended.
4.3.401859I think our country sinks beneath the yoke,
4.3.411860It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash
4.3.431862There would be hands uplifted in my right,
4.3.441863And here from gracious England have I offer
4.3.461865When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head
4.3.471866Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
4.3.481867Shall have more vices than it had before,
4.3.491868More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed. What should he be?
It is myself I mean, in whom I know
4.3.531873That when they shall be opened, black Macbeth
4.3.541874Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state
With my confineless harms. Not in the legions
4.3.571878Of horrid hell can come a devil more damned
In evils to top Macbeth. I grant him bloody,
4.3.591881Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
4.3.601882Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin
4.3.611883That has a name. But there's no bottom, none,
4.3.621884In my voluptuousness. Your wives, your daughters,
4.3.631885Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
4.3.651887All continent impediments would o'erbear
Than such an one to reign. Boundless intemperance
4.3.691892Th'untimely emptying of the happy throne
4.3.701893And fall of many kings. But fear not yet
4.3.721895Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty
4.3.731896And yet seem cold--the time you may so hoodwink.
4.3.741897We have willing dames enough. There cannot be
4.3.761899As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclined. With this, there grows
4.3.801904I should cut off the nobles for their lands,
4.3.811905Desire his jewels and this other's house,
4.3.831907To make me hunger more that I should forge
4.3.841908Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth. This avarice
4.3.861911Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root
4.3.871912Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been
4.3.881913The sword of our slain kings; yet do not fear,
4.3.891914Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will
4.3.901915Of your mere own. All these are portable,
But I have none. The king-becoming graces--
4.3.931918As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
4.3.951920Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude--
4.3.981923Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
4.3.991924Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
All unity on earth. O Scotland, Scotland!
If such a one be fit to govern, speak.
I am as I have spoken. Fit to govern?
4.3.104No, not to live. O nation miserable!
4.3.1061932When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,
4.3.1091935And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father
4.3.1101936Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee,
4.3.1141940Hath banished me from Scotland. O my breast,
Thy hope ends here. Macduff, this noble passion,
4.3.1171944Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts
4.3.1181945To thy good truth and honor. Devilish Macbeth,
4.3.1191946By many of these trains, hath sought to win me
4.3.1311958No less in truth than life. My first false speaking
4.3.1371964Now we'll together and the chance of goodness
4.3.1381965Be like our warranted quarrel. Why are you silent?
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once,
'Tis hard to reconcile. Well, more anon.
Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls
Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, 1975They presently amend.
Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend. I thank you, doctor.
What's the disease he means?
What's the disease he means? 'Tis called the evil.
4.3.1501982Himself best knows, but strangely visited people,
4.3.1511983All swollen and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
4.3.1561988The healing benediction. With this strange virtue
That speak him full of grace. See who comes here.
My countryman, but yet I know him not.
My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither.
I know him now. Good God betimes remove
The means that makes us strangers. Sir, amen.
Stands Scotland where it did?
Stands Scotland where it did? Alas, poor country,
4.3.1662002Be called our mother, but our grave, where nothing
4.3.1672003But who knows nothing is once seen to smile;
4.3.1682004Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air
4.3.1692005Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow seems
4.3.1712007Is there scarce asked for who, and good men's lives
Dying or e'er they sicken. Oh, relation
Too nice and yet too true. What's the newest grief?
That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker,
Each minute teems a new one. How does my wife?
Why, well.
Why, well. And all my children?
Why, well. And all my children? Well, too.
The tyrant has not battered at their peace?
No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.
Be not a niggard of your speech--how goes't?
When I came hither to transport the tidings
4.3.1822022Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor
4.3.1842024Which was to my belief witnessed the rather,
4.3.1862026Now is the time of help.
[To Malcolm] Your eye in Scotland
To doff their dire distresses. Be't their comfort
4.3.1892030We are coming thither: gracious England hath
That Christendom gives out. Would I could answer
4.3.1932035This comfort with the like. But I have words
Where hearing should not latch them. What concern they--
Due to some single breast? No mind that's honest
4.3.1982042But in it shares some woe, though the main part
Pertains to you alone. If it be mine
4.3.2002045Keep it not from me; quickly let me have it.
Let not your ears despise my tongue forever
4.3.2022047Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound
That ever yet they heard. H'm, I guess at it.
Your castle is surprised, your wife and babes
To add the death of you. Merciful heaven!
4.3.2082055What, man, ne'er pull your hat upon your brows:
4.3.2092056Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
4.3.2102057Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.
My children too?
My children too? Wife, children, servants, all
That could be found. And I must be from thence!
My wife killed too? I have said.
My wife killed too? I have said. Be comforted.
4.3.2142063Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge
He has no children. All my pretty ones?
Dispute it like a man.
Dispute it like a man. I shall do so,
4.3.2232073That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on
4.3.2242074And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
4.3.2252075They were all struck for thee. Naught that I am,
4.3.2272077Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now.
Be this the whetstone of your sword; let grief
4.3.2292079Convert to anger. Blunt not the heart, enrage it.
Oh, I could play the woman with mine eyes
4.3.2312081And braggart with my tongue. But gentle heavens,
4.3.2332083Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself--
4.3.2342084Within my sword's length set him. If he 'scape,
Heaven forgive him too. This tune goes manly.
4.3.2362087Come, go we to the King; our power is ready,
4.3.2392090Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may,