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Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there Weep our sad bosoms empty.
Let’s find some quiet place and there Cry our hearts out.
Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our down-fall’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 and yell’d out Like syllable of dolour.
Let’s do the opposite: Keep a firm grip on the sword, and like men of honor Stand tall in our fallen homeland: every new day New widows scream, new orphans cry, new griefs Strike heaven in the face, making it echo As if it shared Scotland’s pain and shouted Like a word of sorrow.
What I believe I’ll wail, What know believe, and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well. He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb To appease an angry god.
I will cry for what I believe, And what I know I believe, and what I can fix, When the right time comes, I’ll act. What you’ve said, maybe it’s true. This tyrant, whose name burns our mouths, Was once thought honorable: you loved him well. He hasn’t hurt you yet. I am young; But maybe through me you can get justice, And the wisdom To offer a weak, innocent lamb To calm an angry god.
I am not treacherous.
I am not a traitor.
But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose: Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell; Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so.
But Macbeth is. A good, virtuous person may change In a position of power. But I must ask Your forgiveness; What you are, my thoughts can’t change: Angels are still bright, even though the brightest fell; Though all things ugly may pretend to be graceful, Grace must still look like grace.
I have lost my hopes.
I’ve lost all hope.
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.
Maybe it’s even where I had my doubts. Why did you leave your wife and child behind, Those precious things, those strong ties of love, Without saying goodbye? Please, Don’t let my suspicions be your shame, But my own safety. You may be completely just, No matter what I think.
Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny! lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not cheque thee: wear thou thy wrongs; The title is affeer’d! 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.
Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, establish yourself firmly, For goodness won’t dare challenge you: wear your Wrongdoing; The title is secure! Farewell, my lord: I wouldn’t be the villain you think I am For all the land the tyrant controls, And the rich East too.
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.
Don’t be offended: I’m not speaking out of absolute fear of you. I think our country is sinking under the weight; It cries, it bleeds; and each new day a new wound Is added to her pain: I also think There would be people supporting me; And here from gracious England I’ve received Thousands of men: but still, When I step on the tyrant’s neck, Or wear it on my sword, my poor country Will suffer more than before, More wrongs and in more ways than ever, From the one who will take over.
What should he be?
Who could that be?
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 compared With my confineless harms.
I mean myself: in me, I know All the vices so deeply rooted That, when they come to light, black Macbeth Will seem pure as snow, and the poor state Will see him as a lamb, compared To my boundless harm.
Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d In evils to top Macbeth.
Not even in the armies Of hell could there be a devil worse In evil than Macbeth.
I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there’s no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust, and my desire All continent impediments would o’erbear That did oppose my will: better Macbeth Than such an one to reign.
I admit he’s bloody, Lustful, greedy, false, deceitful, Quick-tempered, malicious, full of every sin That has a name: but there’s no limit, none, To my indulgence: your wives, your daughters, Your mothers and your maids, couldn’t satisfy The endless pit of my lust, and my desire Would crush any obstacle That tried to oppose my will: better Macbeth Than someone like me to rule.
Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall 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 dames enough: there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclined.
Unlimited excess In nature is a tyranny; it has been The premature end of many kings. But don’t be afraid yet To take what is rightfully yours: you can Enjoy your pleasures in plenty, And still seem cold, you can trick the times. We have enough willing women: there’s no way That evil is in you, to devour so many As will dedicate themselves to greatness, Seeing it’s so inclined.
With this there grows In my most ill-composed affection such A stanchless avarice that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands, Desire his jewels and this other’s house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.
With this, there grows In my most troubled heart such Unstoppable greed that, if I were king, I’d take away the nobles’ lands, Desire his jewels and this other’s house: And my desire for more would be like a sauce That makes me hungrier; I’d create Unjust quarrels against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.
This avarice Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will. Of your mere own: all these are portable, With other graces weigh’d.
This greed Goes deeper, grows with a more harmful root Than the temporary passion of lust, and it has been The weapon of our dead kings: but don’t be afraid; Scotland has enough to satisfy your desires. Of your own desires: all these things can be carried, When weighed with other virtues.
But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, 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 All unity on earth.
But I have none: the virtues of a king, Like justice, truth, self-control, stability, Generosity, persistence, mercy, humility, Devotion, patience, courage, strength, I don’t have any of these, but I’m full Of every kind of sin, Committing them in many ways. No, if I had the power, I would Pour the sweet milk of harmony into hell, Stir up universal chaos, destroy All peace on earth.
O Scotland, Scotland!
Oh Scotland, Scotland!
If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken.
If someone like that is fit to rule, speak: I am as I’ve said.
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 accursed, And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself Have banish’d me from Scotland. O my breast, Thy hope ends here!
Fit to rule! No, not even to live. Oh, wretched country, With a tyrant who has no title, holding a bloody scepter, When will you see your happy days again, Since the true heir to your throne Has been cursed by his own refusal, And even insults his own bloodline? Your royal father Was a holy king: the queen who bore you, Prayed more on her knees than she stood on her feet, Died a little every day she lived. Farewell! These wrongs you’re repeating on yourself Have exiled me from Scotland. Oh my heart, Your hope ends here!
Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled 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 God 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. I am yet Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, Scarcely have coveted what was mine own, At no time broke my faith, would not betray The devil to his fellow and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself: 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, Already at a point, was setting forth. Now we’ll together; and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?
Macduff, this noble emotion, Child of honesty, has wiped away from my soul The dark doubts, and made me see your good truth and honor. Wicked Macbeth Has tried to manipulate me in many ways To gain my power, and modest wisdom keeps me From rushing into decisions: but God above Deal between you and me! For even now I submit myself to your guidance, and Take back the criticisms I made of myself, For they were foreign to my true nature. I am still Untouched by a woman, never have I lied, Rarely have I desired what was mine, Never have I broken my word, would not betray The devil to his fellow and delight In truth just as much as in life: my first falsehood Was in speaking against myself: what I truly am, Is yours and my country’s to command: Indeed, before you arrived here, Old Siward, with ten thousand soldiers, Was already preparing to march. Now we’ll go together; and may the chance for goodness Be like our rightful cause! Why are you silent?
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once ’Tis hard to reconcile.
Such a mix of welcome and unwelcome things It’s hard to make sense of them.
Well; more anon.--Comes the king forth, I pray you?
Well; more soon.--Has the king come out, do you know?
Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch-- Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand-- They presently amend.
Yes, sir; there’s a group of suffering souls Waiting for his cure: their illness tests The full skill of doctors; but when he touches them-- Such holiness has heaven given his hands-- They immediately recover.
I thank you, doctor.
Thank you, doctor.
What’s the disease he means?
What disease is he talking about?
’Tis call’d the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures, Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and ’tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace.
It’s called the evil: A truly miraculous thing in this good king; Which I’ve seen him do many times since I’ve been here in England. How he prays to heaven, He knows best: but strangely affected people, All swollen and covered in sores, pitiful to see, Hopeless for surgery, he heals, Hanging a gold amulet around their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and it’s said, He leaves this healing blessing to the future kings. With this strange power, He has a divine gift of prophecy, And many blessings surround his throne, Showing that he is full of grace.
See, who comes here?
Look, who’s coming here?
My countryman; but yet I know him not.
He’s from my country, but I still don’t recognize him.
My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
My kind and gentle cousin, welcome here.
I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers!
I know him now. Good God, let’s quickly remove The things that make us strangers to each other!
Sir, amen.
Sir, amen.
Stands Scotland where it did?
Is Scotland still in the same state it was?
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 rend the air Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy; 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.
Oh, poor country! It’s almost too scared to recognize itself. It can’t Be called our mother anymore, only our grave; where nothing, Except for the ones who know nothing, ever smiles; Where sighs, groans, and screams fill the air But go unnoticed; where terrible grief seems Like a new kind of happiness; the sound of a death bell Is barely asked for; and good people’s lives End before their time, fading away before they even get sick.
O, relation Too nice, and yet too true!
Oh, that’s too accurate, and yet it’s all too true!
What’s the newest grief?
What’s the latest tragedy?
That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker: Each minute teems a new one.
A new one comes up every hour, Each minute brings something worse.
How does my wife?
How is my wife?
Why, well.
She’s fine.
And all my children?
And my children?
Well too.
They’re fine too.
The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace?
The tyrant hasn’t disturbed their peace, has he?
No; they were well at peace when I did leave ’em.
No; they were safe and sound when I left them.
But not a niggard of your speech: how goes’t?
But don’t hold back; tell me, how are things going?
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.
When I came here to deliver the news, Which I have carried with great sorrow, there was a rumor Of many brave men who were missing; Which seemed to me to be true, Because I saw the tyrant’s power in action: Now is the time for help; your presence in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To shake off their terrible suffering.
Be’t 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.
Let it be their comfort That we are coming there: gracious England has Given us good Siward and ten thousand men; No older or better soldier exists Than those that Christendom has to offer.
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.
I wish I could respond With the same comfort! But I have words That would be shouted out in the open air, Where no one should hear them.
What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast?
What do they concern? The general cause? Or is it personal grief Meant for one individual alone?
No mind that’s honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone.
No honest heart That doesn’t share some sorrow; though the main part Is something that affects you alone.
If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
If it’s about me, Don’t keep it from me, tell me quickly.
Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard.
Don’t let your ears reject my words forever, Which will fill them with the heaviest sound They’ve ever heard.
Hum! I guess at it.
Hmm! I think I know what it is.
Your castle is surprised; 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.
Your castle has been attacked; your wife and children Were brutally murdered: to describe how it happened, Would be like adding your own death To the pile of these dead bodies.
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.
Merciful heaven! What, man! Don’t pull your hat down over your face; Speak your grief: the sorrow that remains silent Whisper’s at the heart, urging it to break.
My children too?
My children too?
Wife, children, servants, all That could be found.
Wife, children, servants, everyone Who could be found.
And I must be from thence! My wife kill’d too?
And I must be away from there! My wife too?
I have said.
I’ve said it.
Be comforted: Let’s make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief.
Be comforted: Let’s turn our great grief into our revenge, To heal this deadly sorrow.
He has 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?
He has no children. All my dear ones? Did you say all? Oh, vile beast! All? What, all my precious children and their mother Killed in one swift blow?
Dispute it like a man.
Handle this like a man.
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. Heaven rest them now!
I will do that; But I must also feel it like a man: I can’t help but remember those things that were, The things that meant the most to me. Did heaven watch, And choose not to take their side? Wicked Macduff, They were all killed because of you! Nothing about me, Not because of their faults, but because of mine, Fell slaughter on their souls. May heaven rest them now!
Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
Let this be the sharpening stone for your sword: let grief Turn into anger; don’t dull your heart, make it fierce.
O, 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 myself; Within my sword’s length set him; if he ’scape, Heaven forgive him too!
Oh, I could cry like a woman with my eyes And boast with my words! But, kind heavens, Cut short all delay; face to face Bring this devil of Scotland and me together; Set him within the reach of my sword; if he escapes, Heaven forgive him too!
This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; 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.
Now you sound like a man. Come, let’s go to the king; our army is ready; We lack only permission; Macbeth Is ripe for overthrowing, and the forces above Have already prepared their instruments. Take what comfort you can: The night is long that never finds the day.