MACDUFF

Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed, That you do lie so late? What three things does Drink especially provoke? I believe, Drink gave thee the Lie last Night. Is thy Master stirring? Our knocking ha awaked him: here he comes. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane ? He did command me to call timely on him, I have almost slipped the hour. I know this is a joyful trouble to you: But yet it's one. I'll make so bold to call, for it's my limited service. Oh horror, horror, horror, Tongue nor Heart cannot conceive, nor name thee. Confusion now hath made his Masterpiece: Most sacrilegious Murder hath broke open The Lords anointed Temple, and stole thence The Life of the Building. Approach the Chamber, and destroy your sighed With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak: See, and then speak your selves: awake, awake, Ring the Alarm Bell: Murder, and Treason, Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolm awake, Shake off this Downy sleep, Death's counterfeit, And look on Death it self: up, up, and see The great Dooms Image: Malcolm, Banquo, As from your Graves rise up, and walk Like Sprights, To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell. Oh gentle Lady, It's not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition in a Woman's care, Would murder as it fell. Oh Banquo, Banquo, Our Royal Master's murdered. Your Royal Father's murdered. Wherefore did you so? Look to the Lady. And so do I. Why see you not? Those that Macbeth hath slain. They were suborned, Malcolm, and Donalbaine the Kings two Sons Are stolen away and fled, which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. He is already named, and gone to Scone To be invested. Carried to Colmekill, The Sacred Storehouse of his Predecessors, And Guardian of their Bones. No Cousin, I'll to Fife. Well may you see things well done there: Adieu Least our old Robes fit easier then our new. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal Sword: and Like good men, Bestride our downfall Birthdome: each new Morn, New Widow's howl, new Orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yelled out Like Syllable of Dolour. I am not treacherous. I have lost my Hope's. Bleed, bleed poor Country, Great Tyrrany, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee: wear y u thy wrongs, The Title, is affeared. Far thee well Lord, I would not be the Villain that thou thinkest, For the whole Space that's in the Tyrants Grasp, And the rich East to boot. What should he be? Not in the Legions Of horrid Hell, can come a Devil more damned In evils, to top Macbeth. Boundless intemperance In Nature is a Tyranny: It hath been the untimely emptying of the happy Throne, And fallen of many Kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold. The time you may so hoodwink: We have willing Dams enough: there cannot be That Vulture in you, to devour so many As will to Greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclined. This Avarice sticks deeper: grows with more pernicious root Then Summer-seeming Lust: and it hath been The Sword of our slain Kings: yet do not fear, Scotland hath Foysons, to fill up your will Of your mere Own. All these are portable, With other Graces weighed. Oh Scotland, Scotland. Such welcome, and unwelcome things at once It's hard to reconcile. What's the Disease he means? See who comes here. My ever gentle Cozen, welcome hither. Stands Scotland where it did? O Relation; too nice, and yet too true. How do's my Wife? And all my Children? The Tyrant ha not battered at their peace? Be not a niggard of your speech: How gos't? What concern they, The general cause, or is it a Fee-griefe Endue to some single breast? If it be mine Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. Humh: I guess at it. My Children too? And I must be from thence? My wife killed too? He ha 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? I shall do so: But I must also feel it as a man; I cannot but remember such things were That were most precious to me: Did heaven look on, And would not take their partly? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee: Nought that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now. Oh I could play the woman with mine eyes, And Braggart with my tongue. But gentle Heavens, Cut short all intermission: Front to Front, Bring thou this Fiend of Scotland, and my self Within my Swords length set him, if he escape Heaven forgive him too. Let our joust Censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious Soldiership. Make all our Trumpets speak, give the ̄ all breath Those clamorous Harbingers of Blood, & Death. That way the noise is: Tyrant show thy face, If thou be'st slain, and with no stroke of mine, My Wife and Children's Ghosts will haunt me still: I cannot strike at wretched Kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their Staves; either thou Macbeth, Or else my Sword with and unbattered edge I sheath again undeeded. There thou shouldst be, By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him Fortune, And more I beg not. Turn Hellhound, turn. I have no words, My voice is in my Sword, thou bloodier Villain Then terms can give thee out. Despair thy Charm, And let the Angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macduff was from his Mother's womb Untimely ripped. Then yield thee Coward, And live to be the show, and gaze of the time. We'll have thee, as our rarer Monsters are Painted upon a pole, and underwit, Here may you see the Tyrant. Hail King, for so thou art. Behold where stands the Usurper's cursed head: the time is free: I see thee compassed with thy Kingdoms Pearl, That speak my salutation in their minds: Whose voices I desire aloud with mine. Hail King of Scotland.