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? 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.
Thou cream-fac'd loon!
Where got'st thou that goose-look?

Ser.
There are ten thousand—

Macb.
Geese, villain?

Ser.
Soldiers, sir.

Macb.
Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, whey-face?

Ser.
The English force, so please you.

Macb.
Take thy face hence—Seyton!—I'm sick at heart,
When I behold— Seyton, I say!—this push
Will cheer me ever, or disease me now.
I have liv'd long enough; my May of life
Is fall'n into the fear, 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.* ^note
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, skirre the country round;
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour. Enter Doctor.
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 full bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?* ^note

Doct.
Therein the patient
Must minister unto himself.

Macb.
Throw physick to the dogs, I'll none of it—
Come, put my armour on; give me my staff.
Seyton, send out—Doctor, the Thanes fly from me—
Come, sir, dispatch—If thou could'st, 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 rhubard, 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. [Exeunt.

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