MACDUFF      This avarice

Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root

Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been

The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear.

Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will

Of your mere own. All these are portable,

With other graces weighed.

MALCOLM      But I have none. The king-becoming graces,

As justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness,

Bounty, persèverance, mercy, lowliness,

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,

I have no relish of them, but abound

In the division of each several crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should

Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,

Uproar the universal peace, confound

All unity on earth.                 (4.3.85-101)

 

Macduff has to admit that avarice is more of a problem in a king, sticks deeper and is more enduring than summer-seeming lust; it has a more pernicious root, is more systemic, deep-seated, than an immature propensity to sexual excess in youth. (Summer-seeming might suggest heat that doesn’t last, something that will eventually fade in due course.) Avarice, the love of wealth and stopping at nothing to acquire it, seizing it from others (as Malcolm has just described)—that’sbeen the sword of our slain kings. It’s brought them down in the past, all too often. Yet do not fear. We’re not done yet, says Macduff, he’s not giving up on Malcolm yet. Scotland hath foisons enough to fill up your will of your mere own. The wealth of the crown, Scotland’s riches, its natural resources—surely that’ll be enough to satisfy you. Everything that you’ve just said is portable, can be withstood, managed, accounted for; it’ll be weighed with your other graces, balanced by your other good qualities. (Macduff could well be sounding a bit desperate by now, all too aware that he’s embarking on special pleading.)

 

But I have none, replies Malcolm, with apparently devastating frankness. I have no redeeming qualities at all. All of the good qualities that a king should have, the king-becoming graces, such as justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness, bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, not a bit, not a trace. (The careful listing of kingly qualities is a compliment to James VI and I.) I’m a terrible, terrible person, and as king I would do terrible things, in every terrible way possible. Had I power, I should pour the sweet milk of concord into hell—milk recalling Lady Macbeth, and here too it’s the milk of human kindness, of nurture, harmony, not simply poured out wastefully but poured into hell—and there is perhaps a hellish whiff of the stink of burnt milk. I would uproar the general peace, turn all to noise and confusion and riot and confound all unity on earth. Conflict, chaos, scorched earth.