 | Macbeth |  |
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ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A Cave.Thunder and Lightning. The three Witches.
1 Witch.
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.
2 Witch.
Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd.
3 Witch.
Harper cries:—'tis time, 'tis time.
1 Witch.
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.—
Toad, that under the cold stone,
Days and nights hast thirty-one,
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!
All.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.
2 Witch.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake:
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
All.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.
3 Witch.
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf;
Witches' mummy; maw, and gulf,
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock, digg'd i' the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew,
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips:
Finger of birth-strangled babe,
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
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For the ingredients of our cauldron.
All.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.
1 Witch.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
Enter Hecate, Spirits, and the Chorus of Witches.
Hec.
Oh, well done! I commend your pains;
And every one shall share i'the gains.
And now about the cauldron sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Inchanting all that you put in.
MUSIC and a SONG.
Hec.
Black spirits and white,
Red spirits and grey,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
You that mingle may.
1 Witch.
Tiffin, Tiffin,
Keep it stiff in.
2 Witch.
Firedrake, Puckey,
Make it lucky.
3 Witch.
Liard, Robin,
You must bob in.
Chor. of Spir.
Around, around, around, about, about;
All ill come running in, all good keep out!
1 Witch.
Here's the blood of a bat.
Hec.
Put in that, put in that.
2 Witch.
Here's Libbard's brain.
Hec.
Put in a grain.
3 Witch.
Here's juice of toad, and oil of adder;
Those will make the charm grow madder.
Hec.
Put in all these; 'twill raise a pois'nous stench!
Hold—here's three ounces of a red-hair'd wench.
Chor. of Spir.
Around, around, around, about, about;
All ill come running in, all good keep out!
Hec.
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.—
Open, locks, whoever knocks.
Hecate, Spirits, and the Chorus of Witches, Exeunt.
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Mac.
How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?
What is't you do?
All.
A deed without a name.
Mac.
I conjure you, by that which you profess,
(Howe'er you come to know it) answer me:
Though you untie the winds, and let them fight
Against the churches; though the yesty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up;
Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down;
Though castles topple on their warder's heads;
Though palaces, and pyramids, do slope
Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure
Of nature's germins tumble all together,
Even 'till destruction sicken, answer me
To what I ask you.
1 Witch..
Speak.
2 Witch.
Demand.
3 Witch.
We'll answer.
1 Witch.
Say, if thoud'st rather hear it from our mouths
Or from our masters'?
Mac.
Call them, let me see them.
1 Witch.
Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten
Her nine farrow; grease, that's sweaten
From the murderer's gibbet, throw
Into the flame.
All.
Come, high, or low;
Thyself, and office, deftly show.
Thunder & Lightning.
An Apparition of an armed Head rises.
Mac.
Tell me, thou unknown pow'r,—
1 Witch.
He knows thy thought;
Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
App.
Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! beware Macduff;
Beware the thane of Fife.—Dismiss me:—Enough.
Descends.
Mac.
What-e'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks;
Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:—But one word more.
1 Witch.
He will not be commanded: here's another,
More potent than the first.
Thunder & Lightning.
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App.
Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!
Mac.
Had I three ears, I'd hear thee.
App.
Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to scorn
The power of man; for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.
Descends.
Mac.
Then live, Macduff; what need I fear of thee?
But yet I'll make assurance double sure,
And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live;
That I may tell pale-hearted fear, it lies,
And sleep in spight of thunder.—
Thunder & Lightning.
An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a Tree in his Hand, rises.
What is this,
That rises like the issue of a king;
And wears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty?
1 Witch.
Listen, but speak not to't.
App.
Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill
Shall come against him.
Descends.
Mac.
That will never be;
Who can impress the forest; bid the tree
Unfix his earth-bound root? sweet bodements! good!
—Yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing; tell me, (if your art
Can tell so much) shall Banquo's issue ever
Reign in this kingdom?
All.
Seek to know no more.
Mac.
I will be satisfy'd: deny me this,
And an eternal curse fall on you! let me know:—
Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this?
Hautboys sound..
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Shew!
2 Witch.
Shew!
3 Witch.
Shew!
All.
Shew his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart.
Thunder & Lightning.
Eight Kings appear, followed by the Ghost of Banquo.
Mac.
Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down!
Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls:—And thy hair,
Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first:—
A third is like the former:—Filthy hags!
Why do you shew me this?—A fourth?—Start, eyes!
What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?—
Another yet?—A seventh?—I'll see no more:—
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass,
Which shews me many more.
The Witches vanish.
Now, I see, 'tis true;
For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me,
And points at them for his.—What? is this so?
Where are they? Gone?—Let this pernicious hour
Stand aye accursed in the calendar!
Come in, without there!
Enter Seyton.
Sey.
What's your grace's will?
Mac.
Saw you the weîrd sisters?
Sey.
No, my lord.
Mac.
Came they not by you?
Sey.
No, indeed, my lord.
Mac.
Infected be the air whereon they ride;
And damn'd all those that trust them!—I did hear
The galloping of horse: who was't came by?
Sey.
'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word,
Macduff is fled to England.
Mac.
Fled to England?
Sey.
Ay, my good lord.
Mac.
Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook,
Unless the deed go with it: from this moment,
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand. And even now
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The castle of Macduff I will surprise;
Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I'll do, before this purpose cool.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
England.—A Grove.Enter Malcolm, and Macduff.
Mal.
Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.
Macd.
Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men,
Bestride our down-fal'n birthdom: each new morn,
New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds,
As if it felt with Scotland.
Mal.
What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
Was once thought honest: you have lov'd him well;
He hath not touch'd you yet.
Macd.
I am not treacherous.
Mal.
But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil,
In an imperial charge.
Macd.
I have lost my hopes.
Mal.
Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts.
Why in that rawness left you wife, and child,
Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,
Without leave-taking?—I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,
But mine own safeties:—You may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.
Macd.
Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
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Fare thee well, lord:
I would not be the villain that thou think'st,
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,
And the rich East to boot.
Mal.
Be not offended:
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think, our country sinks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds: I think, withal,
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
And here, from gracious England, have I offer
Of goodly thousands: but, for all this,
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before;
More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.
Macd.
What should he be?
Mal.
It is myself I mean: in whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted,
That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state
Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd
With my confineless harms.
Macd.
Not in the legions
Of horrid hell, can come a devil more damn'd
In evils, to top Macbeth.
Mal.
I grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful;
But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuousness:
The king-becoming graces,
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
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
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Macd.
Oh, Scotland! Scotland!
Mal.
If such a one be fit to govern, speak.
Macd.
Fit to govern!
No, not to live.—O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again?
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accurs'd,
And does blaspheme his breed?—Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king; the queen, that bore thee,
Oftner upon her knees than on her feet,
Dy'd every day she liv'd. Fare thee well!
These evils, thou repeat'st upon thyself,
Have banish'd me from Scotland.—O, my breast,
Thy hope ends here!
Mal.
Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd 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 Heaven 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. 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,
All ready at a point, was setting forth:
Now we'll together; and the chance, O goodness,
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?
Macd.
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once,
'Tis hard to reconcile.
Macd.
See, who comes here?
Mal.
My countryman; but yet I know him not.
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Macd.
My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
Mal.
I know him now: good Heaven, betimes remove
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 ecstacy: 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.
O, relation,
Too nice, and yet too true!
Mal.
What is the newest grief?
Rosse.
That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;
Each minute teems a new one.
Macd.
How does my wife?
Rosse.
Why, well.
Macd.
And all my children?
Rosse.
Well too.
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,
To doff their dire distresses.
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Be it their comfort,
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 latch them.
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
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 quarry 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.
Wife, children, servants, all
That could be found.
Macd.
And I must be from thence!
My wife kill'd too?
Rosse.
I have said.
Mal.
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?—Oh, hell-kite!—All?
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At one fell swoop?
Mal.
Dispute it like a man.
Macd.
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 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.
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!
Exeunt.
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