Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 3

Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Let's find some empty patch of shade and there weep our sad hearts empty.

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.

Instead, let's grip the deadly sword and, like good men, stand astride our fallen homeland to defend it. Every new morning new widows howl and new orphans cry; new sorrows hit heaven in the face, so that it echoes back as if it shared Scotland's pain, and cried out the same sound of grief.

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.

What I believe, I'll grieve over; what I know, I'll believe; and what I can put right, when I find the time is on my side, I will. What you have said may well be so. This tyrant, whose name alone raises blisters on our tongues, was once thought honest: you loved him well; he hasn't harmed you yet. I am young, but you might earn something from him by betraying me; and it would be wise to offer up a weak, poor, 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 and virtuous nature may give way when a king commands it. But you must forgive me. What you really are, my thoughts cannot alter. Angels are still bright, even though the brightest one fell. Though everything foul would like to wear the face of goodness, goodness must still look like itself.

I have lost my hopes.

I have lost my hopes.

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.

Perhaps in the very place where I found my doubts. Why did you leave your wife and child so unprotected, those precious ties, those strong knots of love, without even saying goodbye? Please, don't take my suspicions as insults to you, but as safeguards for myself. You may be genuinely honest, whatever I may think.

Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check 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, lay your foundations securely, for goodness dares not stop you! Wear the wrongs you have seized; your title has been confirmed. Farewell, my lord. I would not be the villain you take me for, not for all the land the tyrant holds, and the rich East thrown in as well.

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 don't say this because I completely distrust you. I think our country is sinking under the yoke; it weeps, it bleeds, and every new day another gash is added to her wounds. I think, too, that there would be hands raised in support of my claim; and here, from gracious England, I have an offer of many thousands of men. But for all that, when I tread on the tyrant's head, or carry it on my sword, my poor country will have more vices than it had before, and will suffer more, and in more different ways than ever, because of the man who succeeds him.

What should he be?

Who would 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 compar’d With my confineless harms.

I mean myself. I know that every kind of vice is so deeply rooted in me that, when they are opened out, black Macbeth will seem as pure as snow, and our poor country will think of him as a lamb compared with my limitless evils.

Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d In evils to top Macbeth.

Not in all the armies of horrible hell could there come a devil more damned in wickedness 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 is bloody, lecherous, greedy, false, deceitful, violent, malicious, tasting of every sin that has a name. But there is no bottom, none at all, to my lust. Your wives, your daughters, your married women and your virgins could not fill up the tank of my desire; and my appetite would break through every barrier set up to restrain it and oppose my will. Better Macbeth than such a man as king.

Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been Th’ 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 inclin’d.

Limitless excess in a man's nature is a kind of tyranny; it has caused the untimely emptying of the happy throne and the fall of many kings. But don't be afraid yet to take what is rightfully yours. You can satisfy your pleasures in wide abundance and still seem restrained — you can blindfold the world that way. We have enough willing ladies; there cannot be such a vulture in you as to devour all the women who will offer themselves to greatness once they find it so inclined.

With this there grows In my most ill-compos’d affection such A staunchless 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.

Along with this, there grows in my badly made character such an unstoppable greed that, if I were king, I would kill off the nobles to get their lands; I would want this man's jewels and that man's house. And the more I had would be like a sauce to make me hungrier, so that I would invent unjust quarrels against good and loyal men, destroying them for their 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; it grows with a more destructive root than lust, which lasts only a summer. It has been the sword that killed our kings. But don't be afraid: Scotland has plenty to fill up your appetite from your own possessions alone. All these faults are bearable when weighed against other virtues.

But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp’rance, 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 of those. The virtues that suit a king — justice, truthfulness, self-control, steadiness, generosity, perseverance, mercy, humility, devotion, patience, courage, fortitude — I have no taste of them at all; instead I overflow with every separate kind of crime, committing each in many different ways. No, if I had the power, I would pour the sweet milk of harmony into hell, throw universal peace into uproar, and destroy all unity on earth.

O Scotland, Scotland!

Oh Scotland, Scotland!

If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken.

If such a man is fit to govern, say so. I am what I have described.

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 accus’d, And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king. The queen that bore thee, Oft’ner 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 govern? No, not fit to live. Oh miserable nation, with an illegitimate tyrant holding a bloody sceptre, when will you see your healthy days again, since the rightful heir to your throne condemns himself by his own admission and slanders his own parentage? Your royal father was a most saintly king. The queen who gave birth to you was on her knees more often than on her feet, and died to the world every day she lived. Farewell! These evils you recite about yourself have driven me out of Scotland. Oh, my heart, your hope ends here!

Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped 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 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 passion, born of your integrity, has wiped the black suspicions from my soul and reconciled my thoughts to your goodness and honour. Devilish Macbeth has used many such tricks to try to get me into his power, and sensible caution holds me back from over-trusting haste. But let God above judge between you and me! From this moment I put myself under your guidance, and I take back the slanders I told about myself; I renounce here the faults and blames I put on myself as things foreign to my nature. I have never yet known a woman; I have never broken an oath; I have scarcely even desired what was already mine; at no time have I broken my word; I would not betray the devil to another devil; and I love truth as much as life. My first lie was this one about myself. What I truly am is yours and my poor country's to command. In fact, before you arrived here, old Siward, with ten thousand fighting men, all ready to go, was already setting out for Scotland. Now we'll go together, and may our chance of success match the justice of our cause. Why are you silent?

Such welcome and unwelcome things at once ’Tis hard to reconcile.

Such welcome and unwelcome things all at once are hard to put together.

Well; more anon.—Comes the King forth, I pray you?

Well, more of this shortly. Is the King coming out, please?

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 crowd of wretched souls waiting for him to cure them. Their disease defeats the best efforts of medical skill, but at his touch — such holiness has heaven given his hand — they get better at once.

I thank you, doctor.

Thank you, doctor.

What’s the disease he means?

What is the disease he's 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. It's a most miraculous piece of work in this good king, which I have often seen him do since I've been staying here in England. How he gets heaven to grant it, only he knows best; but strangely afflicted people, all swollen and covered with sores, pitiful to look at, whom surgery has completely given up on, he cures, hanging a gold coin around their necks and putting it on with holy prayers. And it's said that he leaves this healing blessing to the kings who follow him. Along with this strange power he has a heavenly gift of prophecy, and many other blessings hang about his throne that show he is full of grace.

See, who comes here?

Look, who's coming here?

My countryman; but yet I know him not.

A fellow Scot; but I still don't recognise him.

My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.

My ever-gentle cousin, welcome here.

I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers!

Now I recognise him. Good God, quickly remove the things that keep us strangers to each other!

Sir, amen.

Sir, amen.

Stands Scotland where it did?

Is Scotland still as 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 rent 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.

Alas, poor country, almost too frightened to recognise itself! It can't be called our mother, but our grave, where nobody is ever seen to smile except the people who know nothing; where sighs and groans and shrieks that tear the air are made but not noticed; where violent grief seems an ordinary emotion. When the bell tolls for a dead man, hardly anyone asks who it's for; and good men's lives end before the flowers in their caps wilt, dying before they even fall ill.

O, relation Too nice, and yet too true!

Oh, an account too precise, and yet too true!

What’s the newest grief?

What's the latest grief?

That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one.

Any grief that's an hour old gets the speaker hissed at; every minute gives birth to a new one.

How does my wife?

How is my wife?

Why, well.

Why, she's well.

And all my children?

And all my children?

Well too.

Well too.

The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace?

The tyrant hasn't attacked their peace?

No; they were well at peace when I did leave ’em.

No; they were well at peace when I left them.

Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes’t?

Don't be stingy with your words: how do things stand?

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 afoot. 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 carry the news, which I have borne with a heavy heart, there was a rumour going round that many worthy men had taken up arms; and I believed it all the more because I saw the tyrant's army on the move. Now is the time for help. Your appearance in Scotland would create soldiers, would make our women fight, to throw off their terrible sufferings.

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 lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; there is no older or better soldier in all Christendom.

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 answer this comfort with comfort of my own! But I have words that ought to be howled out in the empty desert air, where no ear would catch 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 a private grief belonging to one man alone?

No mind that’s honest But in it shares some woe, though the main part Pertains to you alone.

There's no honest mind that doesn't share some of this sorrow, though the main part of it belongs to you alone.

If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

If it is mine, don't keep it from me; let me have it 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 hate my tongue for ever, when it fills them with the heaviest sound they have ever heard.

Humh! I guess at it.

Hm! I can guess what it is.

Your castle is surpris’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.

Your castle has been attacked and taken; your wife and children savagely slaughtered. To describe how it was done would be, on top of this heap of slaughtered deer, to add your own death.

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! Come, man! Don't pull your hat down over your eyes. Put your sorrow into words. The grief that doesn't speak whispers to the overloaded heart and tells it to break.

My children too?

My children too?

Wife, children, servants, all That could be found.

Wife, children, servants, everyone they could find.

And I must be from thence! My wife kill’d too?

And I had to be away from there! My wife killed too?

I have said.

I've said so.

Be comforted: Let’s make us med’cines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief.

Take comfort. Let's make medicine out of a great revenge, to cure this deadly grief.

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 pretty ones? Did you say all? Oh, hell-kite! All? What, all my pretty chickens and their mother, in one cruel swoop?

Dispute it like a man.

Fight it 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 as a man. I can't help remembering that such things existed, and that they were most precious to me. Did heaven look on and refuse to take their side? Sinful Macduff, they were all killed because of you! Worthless as I am, it was not for their own faults but for mine that slaughter fell on their souls. May heaven give them rest now!

Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

Let this be the whetstone for your sword. Turn grief into anger; don't dull your heart, make it furious.

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 play the woman with my eyes and the boaster with my tongue! But, gentle heavens, cut short every delay; face to face, bring this fiend of Scotland and myself together; set him within reach of my sword. If he escapes, then 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.

That sounds like a man. Come, let's go to the King. Our army is ready; all we lack is to take our leave. Macbeth is ripe for the shaking, and the powers above are putting on their armour. Take what comfort you can. The night is long that never finds the day.