Ross. Alas, poor country!
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot 165
Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,[4480]
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air,[4481]
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell[4482] 170
Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives[4483]
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying or ere they sicken.[4484]
Macd. O, relation
Too nice, and yet too true![4485]
Mal. What's the newest grief?[4485][4486]
Ross. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; 175
Each minute teems a new one.
Macd. How does my wife?
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.