Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, The mere despair of surgery, he cures ; The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, 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 The means that make us strangers! Rosse. Sir, Amen. Alas, poor country; Macd. Stands Scotland where it did? Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing, Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives Macd. O, relation, What is the newest grief? Too nice, and yet too true! Mal. Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. 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 was to my belief witness'd the rather, Mal. Be it their comfort, We are coming thither: gracious England hath 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, Macd. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief, Due to some single breast? Rosse. No mind, that's honest, But in it shares some woe; though the main part 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, 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. Mal. I have said. Be comforted: Let's make us medicines 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; Mal. This tune goes manly. |