Macbeth Act 4 Scene 3

Let's find some lonely shaded spot and cry

our sad hearts empty.

Let's instead

grip our deadly swords and, like good men,

stand over our fallen homeland and defend it. Every new morning,

new widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows

slap heaven in the face until it echoes

as if heaven felt Scotland's pain and screamed

the same syllables of grief.

I'll grieve for what I believe is true,

believe what I know, and fix what I can

when the time is right. What you just said

may well be true.

This tyrant, whose mere name blisters our tongues,

was once considered honest. You loved him well —

and he hasn't touched you yet. I'm young,

but you might

earn a reward from him by betraying me. It would be smart

to offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb

to appease an angry god.

I'm not a traitor.

But Macbeth is.

Even a good and virtuous nature can bend

under a king's command. But I beg your pardon —

forgive me:

my suspicions can't change what you actually are.

Angels are still bright, even though the brightest one fell.

And though everything evil tries to wear the face of goodness,

goodness still has to look like itself.

I've lost my hopes.

Maybe you lost them exactly where I found my doubts.

Why did you leave your wife and children — so exposed,

those precious reasons to live, those strong knots of love —

without even saying goodbye? Please understand:

don't take my suspicions as insults to your honor;

they're just my own self-protection. You may be perfectly honest,

whatever I think.

Bleed, bleed, poor country!

Great tyranny, build your foundations deep —

goodness doesn't dare to stop you. Flaunt

your stolen goods;

the title is legally yours now! Farewell, my lord.

I wouldn't be the villain you think I am

for all the land in the tyrant's grip

and the riches of the East thrown in.

Don't be offended —

I'm not saying this out of pure distrust of you.

I think our country is sinking under the yoke.

It weeps, it bleeds, and every new day adds a fresh gash

to her wounds. I also think

there would be hands raised to fight for my claim,

and gracious England has offered me

thousands of good soldiers. But even so —

when I've got the tyrant's head under my boot,

or carried on my sword — my poor country

will have more vices than before,

and suffer more, in more ways than ever,

under the man who succeeds him.

Who do you mean?

I mean myself. I know that in me

every kind of vice is so deeply rooted

that when they bloom, black Macbeth

will look pure as snow, and our poor country

will call him a lamb compared

to my limitless evils.

Not even in the legions

of horrifying hell is there a devil more damned

in evil than Macbeth.

Oh, I grant he's bloodthirsty,

lustful, greedy, false, deceitful,

hot-tempered, malicious, tasting of every sin

that has a name. But there's no bottom — none —

to my lust. Your wives, your daughters,

your married women and your maidens couldn't fill up

the tank of my appetite, and my desire

would bulldoze every restraint

standing in its way. Better Macbeth

than a king like that.

Uncontrolled appetite

is a tyranny of its own — it's caused

the early fall of many a happy throne

and many kings. But don't be afraid

to claim what's yours. You can indulge

your pleasures on a grand scale in secret

while appearing cold — you can fool everyone.

We have willing women enough. There can't be

a vulture in you big enough to devour all those

who'd gladly offer themselves to a king

once they know he's interested.

Along with that, there grows

in my badly-built character such

a bottomless greed that if I were king,

I'd execute the nobles to take their lands,

covet this man's jewels and that man's house —

and every gain would just be sauce

to make me hungrier, until I'd invent

fake quarrels against the good and loyal,

destroying them for their wealth.

This greed

cuts deeper and grows from a more poisonous root

than lust, which fades like summer. Greed has been

the sword that killed our kings. But still, don't worry —

Scotland has riches enough to satisfy you

from your own royal estates. All this is bearable,

weighed against your other virtues.

But I have none. The virtues that suit a king —

justice, honesty, self-control, steadiness,

generosity, perseverance, mercy, humility,

devotion, patience, courage, strength —

I have no trace of them. Instead I overflow

with every variation of every crime,

committed every possible way. No — if I had power, I'd

pour the sweet milk of peace into hell,

throw the world's peace into chaos, and destroy

all unity on earth.

Oh, Scotland! Scotland!

If a man like that is fit to govern, say so.

I am exactly what I've described.

Fit to govern?

Not fit to LIVE. Oh, miserable nation,

ruled by a usurping tyrant with a bloody scepter —

when will you see healthy days again,

now that the rightful heir to your throne

stands cursed by his own confession

and slanders his own bloodline? Your royal father

was the most saintly of kings; the queen who bore you

spent more time on her knees in prayer than on her feet,

and lived each day as if preparing to die. Goodbye!

The evils you claim for yourself

have banished me from Scotland forever. Oh, my heart —

your hope dies here!

Macduff — this noble outburst,

born of pure integrity, has wiped

the dark suspicions from my soul and convinced me

of your honesty and honor. Devilish Macbeth

has tried to lure me into his power

with tricks just like this, so sensible caution keeps me

from trusting too fast. But let God above

judge between us — because from this moment

I put myself under your guidance and

take back everything I said against myself. I renounce

all the sins and flaws I claimed,

as total strangers to my real nature. I'm still

a virgin. I've never broken a promise,

barely even coveted what was already mine,

never broken faith, wouldn't betray

even the devil to another devil, and I love

truth no less than life itself. My first lie ever

was the one I just told about myself. What I truly am

is yours and my poor country's to command.

In fact, before you arrived,

old Siward with ten thousand battle-ready men,

fully equipped, was about to march.

Now we'll go together — and may our odds of success

match the justice of our cause! Why are you silent?

Such welcome and unwelcome things at once —

it's hard to process.

Good — more later. Is the king coming out, please?

Yes, sir. A crowd of suffering souls

waits for his healing touch. Their disease defeats

the best efforts of medicine, but at his touch —

heaven has given his hand such holiness —

they instantly get better.

Thank you, doctor.

What disease is he talking about?

It's called 'the Evil' — scrofula.

This good king works miracles with it.

Since I've been staying here in England

I've often watched him do it. How he petitions heaven,

only he knows. But people with this strange affliction,

all swollen and ulcerated, pitiful to look at,

beyond surgery's help — he cures them,

hanging a gold coin around their necks,

placed with holy prayers. And they say

he passes this healing blessing down

to the kings who follow him. Along with this strange power,

he has a heavenly gift of prophecy,

and blessings of every kind surround his throne,

proclaiming him full of grace. (A very deliberate contrast with a certain other king.)

Look — who's this?

A fellow Scot, by his dress — but I don't recognize him.

My ever-kind cousin — welcome here!

I recognize him now. Good God, quickly remove

whatever it is that keeps us strangers from our home!

Amen to that, sir.

Is Scotland the way I left it?

Oh, our poor country —

almost afraid to recognize itself. It can't

be called our mother anymore, only our grave. A place where

no one smiles except those who know nothing;

where sighs and groans and shrieks tear the air

and no one even notices; where desperate grief

looks like an everyday mood. The funeral bell rings

and hardly anyone asks who died; and good men's lives

wilt faster than the flowers in their caps —

dying before they even fall sick.

A report

too precise — and far too true!

What's the newest grief?

Even news an hour old gets the messenger hissed for being outdated —

every minute breeds a fresh one.

How is my wife?

She's... well.

And all my children?

Well too.

The tyrant hasn't attacked their peace?

No — they were completely at peace when I left them. (He cannot bring himself to say it.)

Don't be stingy with your news — what's happening?

When I set out to carry the news

that weighs so heavily on me, there was a rumor

that many good men had taken up arms —

and I believed it, all the more because

I saw the tyrant's army on the march.

Now is the moment to help. Your presence in Scotland

would create soldiers, make even our women fight

to throw off their terrible suffering.

Let this comfort them:

we're coming. Gracious England has lent us

good Siward and ten thousand men —

no older or better soldier exists

in all of Christendom.

I wish I could answer

that comfort with comfort of my own. But I carry words

that should be howled into empty desert air,

where no ear could catch them.

Who do they concern?

Everyone? Or is it a private grief

belonging to one heart alone?

No honest heart

could help sharing this sorrow — but the main part of it

belongs to you alone.

If it's mine,

don't keep it from me. Give it to me quickly.

Don't let your ears hate my tongue forever

for filling them with the heaviest sound

they've ever heard.

Oh, God. I can guess.

Your castle was taken by surprise. Your wife and children

were savagely slaughtered. To describe how

would be to add your death to the pile

of the murdered.

Merciful heaven!

Come, man — don't pull your hat down over your eyes.

Give sorrow words. Grief that doesn't speak

whispers to the overloaded heart and tells it to break.

My children too?

Wife, children, servants — everyone

they could find.

And I had to be away!

My wife killed too?

I've told you everything.

Take comfort:

let's make medicine out of our great revenge

to cure this deadly grief.

He has no children. — All my pretty ones?

Did you say all? Oh, hell-hawk! All of them?

What — all my pretty chicks and their mother,

in one fell swoop?

Fight this grief like a man.

I will.

But I also have to feel it like a man.

I can't help remembering that such precious things existed,

and were everything to me. Did heaven watch this happen

and refuse to take their side? Sinful Macduff —

they were struck down because of you! Worthless as I am,

not for their faults but for mine,

the slaughter fell on their souls. Heaven rest them now!

Let this be the whetstone of your sword. Let grief

turn into anger. Don't dull your heart — enrage it.

Oh, I could cry my eyes out

and rant like a braggart! But instead, gentle heavens,

cut every delay short. Face to face

bring this fiend of Scotland and me together —

put him within reach of my sword. If he escapes,

then may heaven forgive him too!

Now you sound like a man.

Come — let's go to the king. Our army is ready;

all we need is his blessing to depart. Macbeth

is ripe fruit ready for shaking, and the powers above

are arming themselves. Take whatever comfort you can —

the night is long that never finds the day.