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 like our warranted quarrel! Why are you filent?
Macd. Such welcome, and unwelcome things, at once,
Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

Mal. Well; more anon.

pray you;

Comes the King forth,

Doct. Ay, Sir; there are a crew of wretched fouls, That ftay 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;

.1

[Exit

A moft miraculous work in this good King,
Which often fince my here-remain in England
I've feen him do. How he follicits heav'n,
Himfelf beft knows; but ftrangely-vifited people,
All fwoln and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere defpair of furgery, he cures ;
Hanging a golden ftamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis fpoken, (38)

(38)

and 'tis spoken,

Τα

To the fucceeding royalty be leaves The healing benediction.] Mr. Warburton acutely obferv`d to me upon this paffage, that as, it must be own'd, Shakespeare is often guilty of moft ftrange abfurdities; fo, on the other hand, in this inftance 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 royal line. 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 to be, bered in.

tay?

To the facceeding 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.

Enter Roffe.

Mard. See, who comes here!

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 makes 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 feems
A modern ecstasy: the dead-man's knell

Is there scarce afk'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 newest grief?

Roffe. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker, Each minute teems a new one.

Macd. How does my wife?

Roffe. Why, well.

-

Macd. And all my children?

Rofe. Well too..

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace ?

tary ?----This he has folv'd by infinuating, that Edward had a heavenly gift of prophecy; by which he was inform'd, the cure should remain in his pofterity. 'Tis certain, he was refolv'd to throw in the tradition as a compliment to K. James I. who was very fond of practing this fuperftition; and, I doubt not, had great faith in the fanctity of his hand upon this occafion,

Roffe.

Roffe. No; they were well at peace, when I did leave 'em.
Macd. Be not a niggard of your fpeech: how goes it?
Roffe. When I came hither to tranfport 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 faw the tyrant's power a-foot;
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create foldiers, and make women fight,
To doff their dire diftreffes.

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.

Roffe. '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 fhould not catch them.
Macd. What concern they?

(39)

-gracious England hath

Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men.] This Siward was Earl of Northumberland; and an approv'd old foldier. But it was not for this reafon alone, probably, that Edward the confeffor appointed him his General against Macbeth: but becaufe the Earl, by his daughter, was nearly link'd with Malcolm's family. We find Malcolm afterwards calling him uncle. It may not be difpleafing to the curious if I fubjoin a pedigree, which will at one view fhew Siward's relation to Malcolm, and Macbeth's to the Scotch crown.

Malcome II.
had two daughters

So that Duncan and Macbeth were fifters' children: and Siward was

Malcolm's grandfather by the mother's fide.

The

The gen'ral caufe? or is it a fee-grief,
Due to fome fingle breast ?

Roffe. No mind, that's honeft,

But in it fhares fome woe; though the main part
Pertains to you alone.

Macd. If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

Roffe. Let not your ears defpife my tongue for ever, Which fhall poffefs them with the heaviest found, 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 thefe murder'd deer To add the death of you.

Mal. Merciful heav'n!

What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give forrow words; the grief, that does not fpeak, Whifpers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. Macd. My children too!.

Roffe. Wife, children, fervants, all that could be found. Macd. And I must be from thence! my wife kill'd too! Roffe. I've faid.

Mal. Be comforted.

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

(40) Let's make us medicines of our great revenge,

To cure the deadly grief.

To

Old

Macd. He has no children.----] This may appear at firft fight very abrupt, and foreign to the fentiment we must suppose the speaker then agitated with. But, on examination, we shall have reafon to confefs it an inftance of our author's great knowledge of nature. Hobbes has obferv'd, that we always think in a chain, and that our ideas are concatenated one with another. We fhall find this obfervation very true in the inftance before us. Macduff's thoughts are all employ'd now on revenge: He first confiders the manner of it: and, in his firft tranfports, nothing appears fo fuitable as retaliation: but this brings him to reflect, that he can't have it he e, for that Macbeth had no children: on which he breaks out into this forrowful reflection. Mr. Warburton.

We muft, indeed, acknowledge this fentiment to have its fource. om the reflection of an intended revenge; or from an other reflection purely of tenderness, that if Macbeth had had any children,

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. Difpute it like a man.

Macd. I fhall do fo:

But I muft alfo feel it as a man.

I cannot but remember fuch things were,

That were moft 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 flaughter on their fouls: heav'n reft them now!
Mal. Be this the whetstone of your fword, 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 fhort all intermiffion: front to front,

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;
Within my fword's length fet him, if he 'scape,
Then heaven forgive him too !

Mal. This tune goes manly:

Come, go we to the King, our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for fhaking, and the powers above

Put on their inftruments. Receive what cheer you may;
The night is long, that never finds the day. [Exeunt.

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

So Conftantia, in K. John, when Pandulfe would comfort her for the lofs of her fon, cries;

He talks to me, that never had a fon!

And fo Queen Margaret, (in 3 Henry VI.) when her fon is stabb'd in her prefence, thus exclaims against his murderers.

You have no children, butchers; if you had,

The thought of them would have stir'd up remosse.

ACT