As will to greatness dedicate themselves,

Finding it so inclined.

MALCOLM

With this there grows

In my most ill-composed affection such

A staunchless avarice that were I king

I should cut off the nobles for their lands,

Desire his jewels and this other’s house,

And my more having would be as a sauce

To make me hunger more, that I should forge

Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,

Destroying them for wealth.

MACDUFF

This avarice

Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root

Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been

The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear.

Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will

Of your mere own. All these are portable,

With other graces weighed.

MALCOLM

But I have none. The king-becoming graces,

As justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness,

Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,

I have no relish of them, but abound

In the division of each several crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power I should

Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,

Uproar the universal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

MACDUFF

O Scotland, Scotland!

MALCOLM

If such a one be fit to govern, speak.

I am as I have spoken.

MACDUFF

Fit to govern?

No, not to live. O nation miserable,

With an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptered,

When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,

Since that the truest issue of thy throne

By his own interdiction stands accursed

And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father

Was a most sainted king. The Queen that bore thee,

Oft‘ner upon her knees than on her feet,

Died every day she lived. Fare thee well.

These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself

Hath banished me from Scotland. O, my breast—

Thy hope ends here!

MALCOLM

Macduff, this noble passion,

Child of integrity, hath from my soul

Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts

To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth

By many of these trains hath sought to win me

Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me

From over-credulous haste; but God above

Deal between thee and me, for even now

I put myself to thy direction and

Unspeak 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 forsworn,

Scarcely have coveted what was mine own,

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 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,

Already at a point, was setting forth.

Now we’ll together; and the chance of goodness

Be like our warranted quarrel!—Why are you silent?

MACDUFF

Such welcome and unwelcome things at once

’is hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor

MALCOLM

Well, more anon. (To the Doctor) Comes the King

forth, I pray you?

DOCTOR

Ay, sir. There are a crew of wretched souls

That stay his cure. Their malady convinces

The great essay of art, but at his touch,

Such sanctity hath Heaven given his hand,

They presently amend.

MALCOLM

I thank you, doctor. Exit Doctor

MACDUFF

What’s the disease he means?

MALCOLM

’is called 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 swoll’n and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,

The mere despair of surgery, he cures,

Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,

Put on with holy prayers; and ’is 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.

Enter Ross

MACDUFF

See who comes here.

MALCOLM

My countryman, but yet I know him not.

MACDUFF

My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither.

MALCOLM

I know him now. Good God betimes remove

The means that makes us strangers!

Ross

Sir, amen.

MACDUFF

Stands Scotland where it did?

Ross

Alas, poor country,

Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot

Be called 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 marked; where violent sorrow seems

A modern ecstasy. The dead man’s knell

Is there scarce asked for who, and good men’s lives

Expire before the flowers in their caps,