That, when they fhall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will feem as pure as fnow; and the poor State
Efteem him as a lamb, being compar'd
With my confineless harms.

Macd. Not in the legions

Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd,
In Evils to top Macbeth.
Mal. I grant him bloody,

Luxurious, avaricious, falfe, deceitful,

3 Sudden, malicious, fmacking of ev'ry fin That has a name.

But there's no bottom, none,

In my voluptuoufnefs; your wives, your daughters,"
Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
The ciftern of my luft; and my defire

All continent impediments would o'er-bear,
That did oppofe my will. Better Macbeth,
Than fuch an one to reign.

Macd, Boundless intemperance

In nature is a tyranny; it hath been

Th' untimely emptying of the happy Throne,
And fall of many Kings. But fear not yet
To take upon you what is yours, you may
Convey your pleafures in a fpacious plenty,
And yet feem cold, the time you may fo hoodwink.
We've willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you to devour fo many,

As will to Greatnefs dedicate themselves,
Finding it fo inclin’d.

Mal. With this, there grows,

In my moft ill-compos'd affection, fuch
A ftanchless Avarice, that, were I King,
I fhould cut off the Nobles for their lands;
Defire his jewels, aad this other's houfe;
And my more-having would be as a fauce
To make me hunger more; that I should forge

3 Sudden, malicious-] Sudden, for capricious. WARB.

Rather violent, paffionate,

hafty.

Quar

Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Deftroying them for wealth.
Macd. This Avarice

4

Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root
Than fummer feeming luft; and it hath been
The sword of our flain Kings: yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foyfons, to fill up your will,
Of your mere own. All these are portable,
With other Graces weigh'd.

Mal. But I have none; the King-becoming graces,
As juftice, verity, temp'rance, ftableness,
Bounty, perfev'rance, mercy, lowlinefs,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude;
I have no relish of them, but abound
In the divifion of each feveral crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of Concord into Hell,
Uproar the univerfal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

Macd. Oh Scotland! Scotland!

Mal. If fuch a one be fit to govern, speak.

I am as I have spoken,

Macd. Fit to govern?

No, not to live. O nation miferable,

With an untitled tyrant, bloody-scepter'd,

When fhalt thou fee thy wholefome days again?
Since that the trueft Iffue of thy Throne

By his own interdiction ftands accurft,

And does blafpheme his Breed. Thy royal father Was a moft fainted King; the Queen, that bore thee, Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,

Dy'd every day fhe liv'd. Oh, fare thee well!

These evils, thou repeat'ft upon thyself,

Have banish'd me from Scotland. Oh, my breaft!
Thy hope ends here.

Mal. Macduff, this noble Paffion,

Child of integrity, hath from my foul

Wip'd the black fcruples; reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Develish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath fought to win me
Into his pow'r, and modeft wifdom plucks me
From over-credulous hafte; but God above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and
Unfpeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself,
For strangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to woman, never was forfworn,
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own,
At no time broke my faith, would not betray
The devil to his fellow, and delight

No lefs in truth than life. My firft falfe-speaking
Was this upon myself. What I am truly,
Is thine, and my poor Country's, to command;
Whither, indeed, before thy here approach,
Old Siward with ten thousand warlike-men,
"All ready at a point, was fetting forth.
Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness

Be

commonly read, conveys no
If there be not fome
fenfe.
more important errour in the
paffage, it fhould at least be
pointed thus:

-and the chance, of goodness,
Be like our warranted quar-
rel!

That is, may the event be, of the goodnefs of heaven, [pro juftitia divina] answerable to the caufe.

But

Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you filent? Mard. Such welcome, and unwelcome things at

once,

'Tis hard to reconcile.

SCENE V.

Enter a Doctor.

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

Dot. Ay, Sir, there are a crew of wretched fouls, That stay his cure; their malady convinces.

The great affay of art. But, at his Touch,
Such fanctity hath heaven given his hand,
They prefently amend.

Mal. I thank you, Doctor.

Macd. What's the Difeafe he means?
Mal. 'Tis call'd the Evil;

[Exit.

A most miraculous work in this good King,
Which often fince my here remain in England
I've seen him do. How he follicits heav'n,
Himself best knows, but ftrangely-vifited people,
All fwoln and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere defpair of furgery, he cures,
Hanging a golden Stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers. $ And 'tis fpoken,

But I am inclined to believe that Shakespeare wrote,

-and the chance, O goodness, Be like our warranted quarrel!

This fome of his tranfcribers wrote with a small o, which another imagined to mean of. If we adopt this reading, the fenfe will be, and 0 thou fovereign Goodness, to whom we now op

Το

To the fucceeding Royalty he leaves

The healing Benediction. With this ftrange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of Prophecy;

And fundry bleffings hang about his Throne,
That speak him full of Grace.

SCENE

Enter Roffe.

Macd. See, who comes here!

VI.

Mal. My countryman; but yet I know him not. Macd. My ever-gentle Coufin, welcome hither. Mal. I know him now. Good God betimes remove The means that make us ftrangers!

Roffe. Sir, Amen.

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?

Roffe. Alas, poor Country,

Almoft afraid to know itself. It cannot

Be call'd our Mother, but our Grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once feen to fmile:
Where fighs and groans, and fhrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow seems
9 A modern ecftafie; the dead man's Knell

Is there scarce afk'd, for whom; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps;

Dying, or ere they ficken.

Macd. Oh, relation
Too nice, and yet too true!

had a mind to hint that the cure of the Evil was to defcend to the fucceffors in the royal line in compliment to James the firft. But the Confeffor was the first who pretended to this gift: How then could it be at that time generally spoken of that the gift was hereditary?This he has folv ed by telling us that Edward

had the gift of prophecy along with it. WARBURTON.

9 A modern ecftafie-] That is, no more regarded than the contorfions that Fanatics throw themfelves into. The author was thinking of thofe of his own times. WARBURTON. I believe modern is only feelifb or trifling.

Ma!.