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 weighed.
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.
O Scotland, Scotland!
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.
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.
If such a one be fit to govern, speak. I am as I have spoken.
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 'tis hard to reconcile.
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.
Fit to govern? No, not to live.—O nation miserable, with an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptered, 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 banished me from Scotland.—O my breast, thy 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 honor. Devilish Macbeth by many of these trains hath sought to win me into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me from overcredulous 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?