Ross. Sir, amen.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Ross. Alas! poor country; 164
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 168
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, 172
Dying or ere they sicken.
Macd. O! relation
Too nice, and yet too true!
Mal. What's the newest grief?
Ross. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;
Each minute teems a new one.
Macd. How does my wife? 176
Ross. Why, well.
Macd. And all my children?
Ross. Well too.
Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?
Ross. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes 't? 180
Ross. 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 184
168 rent: rend
170 modern: commonplace
171 Is . . . who; cf. n.
173 or ere: ere
174 nice: minutely detailed
176 teems: brings forth
183 out: up in arms
184 witness'd: made credible
