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At no time broke my faith, would not betray
The devil to his fellow, and delight
No less in truth, than life: my first false-speaking,
Was this upon my elf. What I am truly,., a
J: 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 setting forth.
Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent

Macd. Such welcome, and unwelcome things, at once, *Tis hard to reconcile,

Enter a Doctor.
Mai. Well; more anon. Comes the King forth, L

pray you;
Doet. Ay, Sir; there are a crew of wretched fouls,
That stay his cure; their malady convinces
The great afay of art. But at his touch,
Such fanctity hath heaven given his hand,
They prefently amend.

(Exito
Mal. I thank you, Doctor.
Macdi What's the disease he means?

Mal. 'Tis call'd the evil.;
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 strangely-visited people,
AH swoln and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures;
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers : and 'cis spoken, (38)

То

138)

and ris ficking Futbe fücceeding royalty he leaves

Tbe healing benediction.] Mr. Warburtun acutely observ'disto me upon this passage, that as, it must be own'd, Shakespeare is often guilty of mod frange absurdities; io, on the other hand, in this infance he has artfully avoided one. He had a mind to hint, that the cure of the evil was to defcend to the fucceffors in the roval line, But the confifor was the first, who pretended to this gift: How chen could is be at that time generally spoken of, that the gift was to be, hered in

ta:y

To the fucceeding royalty he leaves
The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;
And fundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full ef grace.

Enter Rofie.
Macd. See, who comes here!
Mal. My countiyman; 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 makes us strangers !

Role. 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 seen to smile:
Where sighs and groans, and thrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy: the dead-man's knell
Is there scarce ak'd, for whom ; and good mens lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps;
Dying, or ere they ficken.

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

Mal. What's the neweft grief?

Roje. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker, Each minute teems a new one. Macd. How does

my

wife? Rofe. Why, well. Macd. And all

my

children? Roffe. Well too. Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace ?

tary ? ----This he has folv'd by insinuating, that Edward had a heavenly gist of prophecy; by which he was inform'd, the cure fhould remain in his pofterity. 'Tis certain, he was refolu'd to throw in the tradition as a compliment to K. James I. who was very fond of practiting this superstition; and, I doubt not, had great faith in the sanctity of his hand upon this occasion,

Rolle.

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Rolle. No; they were well-at peace, when I did leave 'em.
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes

Rofje. When I came hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour
Of many worthy fellows that were out,
Which was to my belief witnefs'd the rather,
For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot;
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, and make women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.

Mal. Be't their comfort
We're coming thither : gracious England hath (39)
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men;
An older, and a better foldier, none
That Christendom gives out.

Rosse. 'Would, I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words,
That would be howl'd out in the defart air,
Where hearing should not catch them.

Macd. What concern they?
(39)

-gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men.) This Siward was Ear)
of Northumberland; and an approvd old soldier. But it was not for
this reason alone, probably, that Edward the confeffor appointed him
his General against Macbeth: but because the Earl, by his daughter,
was nearly link'd with Malcolm's family. We find Malcolm after-
wards calling him uncle. It may not be displeasing to the curious if
I subjoin a pedigree, which will at one view shew Siward's relation
to Malcolm, and Macbetb's to the Scotcb crown.

Malcume II,
had two daughters

Beatrice, who married Crinen;

and Doada, who mara by whom the had

ried Sined 1

Earl of Duncan; who, marrying

Glamis; Siward's daughter,

bv whom she had. by her he had

1

Macbeth.
Malcolm Cammoir.
So that Duncan and Macbeth were filters' children: and Siward was
Malcolm's grandfather by the mother's side,

The

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The gen'ral cause? or is it a fee-grief,
Due to some single breast?

Rofe. No mind, that's honest,
But in it shares some woe; though the main part
Pertains to you alone.

Macd. If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

Rofe. Let not your ears despise my tongue for every
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound,
That ever yet they heard.

Macd. Hum! I guess at it.

Roffe. Your caftle is furpriz'd, your wife and babes
Savagely flaughter'd ; to relate the manner,
Were on the quarry of these murder'd deer
To add the death of

you.
Mal. Merciful heav'n!
What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give corrow words; the grief, that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break,

Macd. My children too !-
Rolle. Wife, children, servants, all that could be found.
Macd. And I'must be from thence! my wife kill'd too!
Rose. I've said.

Mal. Be comforted.
Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge, (40)

To (40) Let's make us med"cines of our great revenge,

To cure the deadly grief. Macd. He bus no children.----] This may appear at firft fight' very abrupt, and foreign to the sentiment we must suppose the speaker then agitated with. But, on examination, we shall have reason to confess it an instance of our author's great knowledge of nature. Old Hobbes has observ'd, that we always think in a chain, and that our ideas are concatenated one with another. We shall find this obsere vation very true in the instance before us. Macduff's thoughts are all employ'd now on revenge: He first considers the manner of it: and, in his first transports, nothing appears to suitable as retaliation: but this brings him to reflect, that he can't have it he eg for that: Macbeth had no children: on which he breaks out into this forrowful reflection

Mr. Warburton. We must, indeed, acknowledge this sentiment to have its fourca i kom the reflection of an intended revenge ; or from an other reGestion purely of tenderness, that if Masbeeb had had any children,

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To cure this deadly grief.

Macd. He has no children. All my pretty ones?
Did

you fay all ? what, all? oh, hell-kite!' all
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell fwoop

Mal. Dispute it like a man.
Macd. I shall do fo:

d
But I must also feel it as a mart.
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me : did heav'n look on,
And would not take their part? finful Macduff,
They were all ftruck for thee ! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls: heav'n rest them now!

Mal, Be this the wheistone of your sword, let grief
Convert to wrath: blunt not the heart, enrage it.

Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle heav'n!
Cut short all intermifion: front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself;
Within my sword's length set him, if he 'scape,
Then heaven forgive him too!

Mal. This tyne goes manly :
Come, go we to the King, our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may;
The night is long, that never finds the day. (Exeunt.

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he could not have been capable of fuch a barbarity on Macduff's offspring,

So Conftantia, in K: Fobn, when Pandulfe would comfort her for the loss of her fon, cries;

He talks to me, that never had a fon!
And so Quieen Margarit, (in 3 Henry VI.) when ber fon is stabb'd
in her presence, thus exclaims against his murderers.

You have no children, butchers; if you had,
The thought of them would have ftir'd up remorse..

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