Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. |
|
Enter MACBETH, Doctor, and Attendants. |
Macb. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: |
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 pronounc'd 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. |
|
Enter a Servant. |
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! |
Where gott'st thou that goose look? |
Serv. There is ten thousand— |
Macb. Geese, villain? |
Serv. Soldiers, sir. |
Macb. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, |
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? |
Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine |
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, wheyface? |
Serv. The English force, so please you. |
Macb. Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant.] Seyton!—I am sick at heart |
When I behold—Seyton, I say!—This push |
Will cheer me ever or disseat me now. |
I have liv'd 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! |
|
Enter SEYTON. |
Sey. What is your gracious pleasure? |
Macb. What news more? |
Sey. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. |
Macb. I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. |
Give me my armour. |
Sey. 'Tis not needed yet. |
Macb. I'll put it on. |
Send out more horses, skirr the country round; |
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour. |
How does your patient, doctor? |
Doct. Not so sick, my lord, |
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, |
That keep her from her rest. |
Macb. Cure her of that: |
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd, |
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? |
Doct. Therein the patient |
Must minister to himself. |
Macb. Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it. |
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, senna, or what purgative drug |
Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them? |
Doct. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation |
Makes us hear something. |
Macb. Bring it after me. |
I will not be afraid of death and bane |
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. |
Doct. [Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, |
Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exeunt. |
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