 | Lady Macbeth |  |
SCENE IX.
BAUDRON.Poor miscompounded, miscommissioned man,
Enrich'd with valour and the heart's best ore,
But so mixt up with fellest cruelty,
As still to have affinity for ill.
While I rejoice that, thus, the ruthless king,
Whose scepter, grimly clutch'd, has made the land
Quake to its utmost ocean-beaten cape,
Already feels the retribution close,
My bosom yearns afflicted for the man;
As when a father mourns the dismal end
Of his o'er-fondled, long-unchidden son.
Ill-starr'd Macbeth! had destiny withheld
Thy high enthusiasm from the sway
Of thy arch-human wife, who, sternly proud,
Amidst the storms of fortune and disease,
Stands like a rock, around whose clouded head,
Gleam fires from heav'n, while billows dash the base;
Perchance, O hapless, to thy trophied name,
The long processions of posterity
Might have, admiring, look'd and pass'd improv'd.
Hark! 'tis the engines thund'ring at the gates.
| Lady Macbeth | |