Act 4 - Scene 3
England. Before the King's palace.
Enter MALCOLM and MACDUFF
Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.
Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men
Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new
New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
As if it
felt with Scotland and yell'd out
Like syllable of dolour.
What I believe I'll wail,
What know believe, and what I can redress,
As I shall find the time to friend, I
What you have spoke, it may be so perchance.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
once thought honest: you have loved him well.
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young;
may deserve of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb
To appease an angry
I am not treacherous.
But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil
In an imperial charge. But I shall crave
which you are my thoughts cannot transpose:
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell;
things foul would wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace must still look so.
I have lost my hopes.
Perchance even there where I did find my doubts.
Why in that rawness left you wife and child,
precious motives, those strong knots of love,
Without leave-taking? I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be
But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.
Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny! lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dare not cheque thee: wear
The title is affeer'd! Fare thee well, lord:
I would not be the villain that thou think'st
whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,
And the rich East to boot.
Be not offended:
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;
it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds: I think withal
There would be hands uplifted in
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
More suffer and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.
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