« ElőzőTovább »
To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and
done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o'the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do, before this purpose cool.— Where are these gentlemen? [Exeunt.
The Country,—in England.
Enter Malcolm and Macduff. Mai. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty.
Macd. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom : Each new morn, New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike Heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like syllables of dolour.
Mal. What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet.
Macd. I am not treacherous.
Mal. But Macbeth is.
Macd. I have lost my hopes.
Mal. Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts.
Why in that rawness left you wife, and child,
Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,
Without leave-taking?—I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,
But mine own safeties:—You may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.
Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country!
I would not be the villain that thou think'st,
Mai. Be not offended:
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful;
But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuousness.
Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
Macd. Oh Scotland! Scotland!
Mai. If such a one be fit to govern, speak.
Macd. Fit to govern! No, not to live.—O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accurs'd, And does blaspheme his breed ?—Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen, that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Dy'd every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils, thou repeat'st upon thyself, Have banish'd me from Scotland.—O my breast, Thy hope ends here!
Mal. Macduff, this noble passion,
Is thine, and my poor country's, to command:
All ready at a point, was setting forth:
Now we'll together; and the chance, of goodness,
JJe like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?
Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once, 'Tis hard to reconcile.—See, who comes here?
Mal. My countryman; but yet I know him not.
Macd. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither.
Mal. I know him now: Good Heaven, betimes remove The means that make us strangers!
Rosse. Sir, Amen.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Rosse. Alas, poor country! Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave; where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air, Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstacy: the dead man'si knell Is there scarce ask'd, for whom; and good men's
Macd. O, relation,
Mal. What is the newest grief?
Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one.
Macd. How does my wife?
Rosse. Why, well.
Macd. And all my children?'
Rosse. Well too.
Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?
Rosse. No; they were all at peace, when I did leave thera.
Macd. Benota niggard of your speech; how goes it?
Rosse. 'Would I could answer
Macd. What concern they?
Rosse. No mind, that's honest,
Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,
Rosse. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife, and babes, Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner, "Were, on the quarry of these murder' d deer, To add the death of you.
Mai. Merciful Heaven!
What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak, Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.