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.

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

Doct. Ay sir: there are a crew of wretched souls, That stay his cure: their malady convinces1 The great assay of art; but, at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend.

Mal

I thank you, doctor. [Ex. Doct. Macd. What is the disease he means? Mal. 'Tis call'd the evil : A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, All swold and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp2 about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;

And sundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full of grace.

Macd.

Enter Rosse.

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 God, betimes

remove

(1) Overpowers, subdues.
The coin called an angel.

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 rent the
air,

Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell

Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives

Expire before the flowers in their caps,

Dying, or ere they sicken.

Macd.

Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal.

O, relation

What is the newest grief?

Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the

speaker;

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? Rosse. No; they were well at peace, when I did leave them.

Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech; How goes it?

Rosse. 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 witness'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, make our women fight,

(1) Common distress of mind.

Be it their comfort,

To doff their dire distresses.

Mal.

We are coming thither: gracious England hath Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men; An older, and a better soldier, 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 desert air,
Where hearing should not latch2 them.

What concern they?

Macd.
The general cause? or is it a fee-grief,3
Due to some single breast?

Rosse.

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

Macd.

If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for

ever,

Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound, That ever yet they heard.

Macd

Humph! I guess at it. Rosse. Your castle is surpriz'd; your wife, and

babes,

Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
Were, on the quarry4 of these murder'd deer,
To add the death of you.

Mal

Merciful heaven!What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak, Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. Macd. My children too?

Rosse.

That could be found.

Macd.

(1) Put off

Wife, children, servants, all

And I must be from thence?

(2) Catch.

(3) A grie hat has a single owner. (4) The gaine after it is killed.

My wife kill'd too?

Russe.

Mal.

I have said.

Be comforted:

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.

Macd. He has no children.-All my pretty ones? Did you say, all?-O, hell-kite!—All!

What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop?

Mal. Dispute it like a man.
Macd.

But i must also feel it as a man:

I shall do so;

I cannot but remember such things were,

That were most precious to me.-Did heaven look

on,

And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now!

Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief

Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine

eyes,

And braggart with my tongue!--But, gentle heaven, Cut short all intermission; front to front,

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, 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 shaking, and the powers above

Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may;

The night is long, that never finds the day. [Exe. (1) All pause.

ACT V.

SCENE 1.-Dunsinane. A room in the castle. Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a waiting Gentlewoman.

Doct. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?

Gent. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

Doct. A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

Gent. That, sir, which I will not report after her. Doct. You may, to me; and 'tis most meet you should.

Gent. Neither to you, nor any one, having no witness to confirm my speec

Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. Doct. How came she by that light?

Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command.

Doct. You see, her eyes are open.
Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doct. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady M. Yet here's a spot.