Enter MACBETH, Doctor, and Attendants
MACBETH
Bring me no more reports; let them fly all:
Enter a Servant
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!
Servant
There is ten thousand--
MACBETH
Geese, villain!
Servant
Soldiers, sir.
MACBETH
Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,
Servant
The English force, so please you.
MACBETH
Take thy face hence.
Exit Servant
Seyton!--I am sick at heart,
Enter SEYTON
SEYTON
What is your gracious pleasure?
MACBETH
What news more?
SEYTON
All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
MACBETH
I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd.
SEYTON
'Tis not needed yet.
MACBETH
I'll put it on.
Doctor
Not so sick, my lord,
MACBETH
Cure her of that.
Doctor
Therein the patient
MACBETH
Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.
Doctor
Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation
MACBETH
Bring it after me.
Doctor
[Aside] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,
Exeunt
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,
I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know
All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus:
'Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman
Shall e'er have power upon thee.' Then fly,
false thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures:
The mind I sway by and the heart I bear
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.
Where got'st thou that goose look?
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch?
Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
When I behold--Seyton, I say!--This push
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.
I have lived long enough: my way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!
Give me my armour.
Send out more horses; skirr the country round;
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.
How does your patient, doctor?
As she is troubled with thick coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Must minister to himself.
Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff.
Seyton, send out. Doctor, the thanes fly from me.
Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast
The water of my land, find her disease,
And purge it to a sound and pristine health,
I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again.--Pull't off, I say.--
What rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug,
Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them?
Makes us hear something.
I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
Profit again should hardly draw me here.
