As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out
Like syllable of dolour.
Mal. What I believe I'll wail, 8
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 lov'd him well; 13
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something
You may discern of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb 16
To appease an angry god.
Macd. I am not treacherous.
Mal. But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil
In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; 20
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.
Macd. I have lost my hopes. 24
Mal. 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, 28
Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,
But mine own safeties: you may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.
8 dolour: sorrow
10 to friend: favorable
13–16 Cf. n.
19 recoil: turn to evil
20 imperial charge: king's service
24 so: i.e., gracious
26 rawness: rash haste
29 jealousies: suspicions
