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To cure this deadly grief.
Macd. He has no children.-All my pretty ones ? Did
you say all! what, all? oh, hell-kite ! all ? What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, At one fell swoop ?
Mal. Dispute it like a man..
Macd. I shall do so :
Mal. Be this, the wheistone of your sword, 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 Thort all intermission : front to front, Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him, if he 'scape, Then heaven forgive him too!
Mal. This tune goes manly: Come, go we to the King, our power is readys. 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. [Exeunt,
he could not have been capable of such a barbarity on Macduf's Offspring.
So Confiantia, in K. John, when Pandulfe would comfort her for the loss of her son, cries;
He talks to me, that never had a son ! And so Queen Margaret, (in 3. Henry VI.) when her son is stabbid in her presence, thus exclaims against his murderers.
You have no children, butchers; if yon had,
SCENE, an Anti-chamber in Macbeth's Castle,
Enter a Doctor of Physick, and a Gentlewoman.
no truth in your report. When was it, she last walk'd!
Gent. Since his Majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forch paper, fold it, write upon't, read it, afterwards feal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a moft faft sleep.
Doci. A great perturbation in nature ! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this flumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what (at any time) have you heard her fay?
Gent. That, Sir, which I will not report after her.
Gent. Neither to you, nor any one, having no wita ness to confirm my speech.
Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper. Lo, you! here she comes: this is her very guise, and, apon my life, faft asleep; observe her, stand close.
Doct. How came the 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.
Doct. What is it she does now? look, how she rubs her hands.
Gent. It is an accuftom'd action with her, to feem 1
thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.
Lady. Yet here's a spot.
Doi. Hark, she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more ftrongly.
Lady. Out! damned spot; out, I say—one; two; why then, 'tis time to do't-hell is murky. Fy, my Lord, fy, a soldier, and afraid? what need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? yet who would have thought the old man to have had to much blood in him ?
Doct. Do you mark that?
Lady. The Thane of Fife had a wife ;. where is she now? what, will these hands ne'er be cleanino more o that, my Lord, no more o' that: you marr all with this starting
Doet. Go to, go to; you have known what you Mould not.
Gent. She has spoke what she hould not, I am sure of that: heav'n knows, what she has known.
Lady. Here's the smell of the blood ftill: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!
Doct. What a sigh is there the heart is forely charg'd. Gent. I would
not have such a heart in my bosom,, for the dignity of the whole body.
Doet. Well, well, well-
Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walkt in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.
Lady. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown, look not so pale I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out of his grave.
Doct. Even so ?
Lady. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand : what's done, cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
[Exit Lady. Doci. Will the go now to bed?
Do. Foul whisp'rings are abroad; unnatral deeds, Do breed unnat'ral troubles. Infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs the the divine, than the physician. God, God, forgive us all! Look after her, Remove from her the means of all'annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her; fo, good night. My mind Me' as mated, and amaz’d my fight. I think, but dare not speak. Gent. Good-night, good Doctor.
SCENE changes to a Field, with a Wood at
Enter Menteth, Cathness, Angus, Lenox, and Soldiers. Ment. THE English power is near, led on by Malcolm, TH
His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them: for their dear causes (41) Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man.
Ang. Near Hirnan-wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming,
Qarh. Who knows, if Donalbain.be with his brother i
Len. For certain, Sir, he is not: l've a file Of all the gentry, there is Siward's son, (42).
And - for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and tbe grim aların Excite the mortified man.) i. e. the man, who had abandon'd himself io despair, who had no ipirit or resolution left. So Caius Ligarius replies to Brutus;
Soul of Rome,
Jul. Cæfar. 442)
there is Siward's song And many unruff 'd youtbs, that even now, Proteft ibeir forff of manbood.] This unruff'dis a tacit sophistication put upon ys by Mr. Pope, in his extraordinary fagacity; implying That Malcolm had many soldiers in his ranks too young to wear a
And many unrough youths, that even now
Ment. What does the tyrant?
Cath. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies ;
Ang. Now does he feel
Ment. Who then shall blame
Cath. Well, march we on,
suffe. . This happy construction might seduce one into an error, who was not acquainted with that gentleman's spirit of criticism. 'Tis true, the old editions read-.-unruffe youths; and our great Orbilius did not discern that this was the antiquated way of spelling, unrouge, i. e, smooth-chin'd, imberbis. And our author particularly delights in this mode of expression. To subjoin a few instances;
a twelvemonth and a day, I'll mark no words that smoothfac'd wooers say,
Love's Labour loft. Now, Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!
or who knows,
Anto, and Cleop.