And all my
Children?
shakespeare-macbeth
My euer gentle Cozen, welcome hither
Malc. I know him now. Good God betimes remoue
The meanes that makes vs Strangers
Rosse. Sir, Amen
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Rosse. Alas poore Countrey,
Almost affraid to know it selfe. It cannot
Be call'd our Mother, but our Graue; where nothing
But who knowes nothing, is once seene to smile:
Where sighes, and groanes, and shrieks that rent the ayre
Are made, not mark'd: Where violent sorrow seemes
A Moderne extasie: The Deadmans knell,
Is there scarse ask'd for who, and good mens liues
Expire before the Flowers in their Caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken
Macd. Oh Relation; too nice, and yet too true
Malc. What's the newest griefe?
Rosse. That of an houres age, doth hisse the speaker,
Each minute teemes a new one
Macd. How do's my Wife?
Rosse. Why well
Macd.
And all my Children?
Rosse. Well too
Macd. The Tyrant ha's not batter'd at their peace?
Rosse. No, they were wel at peace, when I did leaue 'em
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: How gos't?
Rosse. When I came hither to transport the Tydings
Which I haue heauily borne, there ran a Rumour
Of many worthy Fellowes, that were out,
Which was to my beleefe witnest the rather,
For that I saw the Tyrants Power a-foot.
Now is the time of helpe: your eye in Scotland
Would create Soldiours, make our women fight,
To doffe their dire distresses
Malc. Bee't their comfort
We are comming thither: Gracious England hath
Lent vs good Seyward, and ten thousand men,
An older, and a better Souldier, none
That Christendome giues out
Rosse. Would I could answer
This comfort with the like. But I haue words
That would be howl'd out in the desert ayre,
Where hearing should not latch them
Macd. What concerne they,
The generall cause, or is it a Fee-griefe
Due to some single brest?
Rosse. No minde that's honest
But in it shares some woe, though the maine part
Pertaines to you alone
Macd.
Malc. I know him now. Good God betimes remoue
The meanes that makes vs Strangers
Rosse. Sir, Amen
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Rosse. Alas poore Countrey,
Almost affraid to know it selfe. It cannot
Be call'd our Mother, but our Graue; where nothing
But who knowes nothing, is once seene to smile:
Where sighes, and groanes, and shrieks that rent the ayre
Are made, not mark'd: Where violent sorrow seemes
A Moderne extasie: The Deadmans knell,
Is there scarse ask'd for who, and good mens liues
Expire before the Flowers in their Caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken
Macd. Oh Relation; too nice, and yet too true
Malc. What's the newest griefe?
Rosse. That of an houres age, doth hisse the speaker,
Each minute teemes a new one
Macd. How do's my Wife?
Rosse. Why well
Macd.
And all my Children?
Rosse. Well too
Macd. The Tyrant ha's not batter'd at their peace?
Rosse. No, they were wel at peace, when I did leaue 'em
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: How gos't?
Rosse. When I came hither to transport the Tydings
Which I haue heauily borne, there ran a Rumour
Of many worthy Fellowes, that were out,
Which was to my beleefe witnest the rather,
For that I saw the Tyrants Power a-foot.
Now is the time of helpe: your eye in Scotland
Would create Soldiours, make our women fight,
To doffe their dire distresses
Malc. Bee't their comfort
We are comming thither: Gracious England hath
Lent vs good Seyward, and ten thousand men,
An older, and a better Souldier, none
That Christendome giues out
Rosse. Would I could answer
This comfort with the like. But I haue words
That would be howl'd out in the desert ayre,
Where hearing should not latch them
Macd. What concerne they,
The generall cause, or is it a Fee-griefe
Due to some single brest?
Rosse. No minde that's honest
But in it shares some woe, though the maine part
Pertaines to you alone
Macd.
