Ay, Talboys, that is true Shakspeare. No Poet—before or since—has in so few words presented such a picture. No poet, before or since, has used such words. He writes like a man inspired.
TALBOYS.
And in the same dialogue Malcolm says—
"I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds."
NORTH.
Go on, my dear Talboys. Your memory is a treasury of all the highest Poetry of Shakspeare. Go on.
TALBOYS.
And hear Rosse, on his joining Malcolm and Macduff in this scene, the latest arrival from Scotland:—
"Macduff. Stands Scotland where it did?
Rosse. 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."