[Dunsinane. A room in the castle. Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants]
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 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.
[Enter a Servant]
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon.
Where got'st thou that goose look?
Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-livered boy. What soldiers, patch?
Death of thy soul — those linen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
The English force, so please you.
Seyton! — I am sick at heart,
When I behold — Seyton, I say! — This push
Will cheer me ever, or dis-seat 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 honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have — but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
What is your gracious pleasure?
All is confirmed, my lord, which was reported.
I'll fight till, from my bones, my flesh be hacked.
Send out more horses; skirr the country round;
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armor.
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 stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Must minister to himself.
Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.
Come, put mine armor 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?
Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation
I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
[Aside] Were I, from Dunsinane, away and clear;
Profit, again, should hardly draw me here.