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, Malcolme?
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 Lown:
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 Lilly-liver'd Boy. What Soldiers, Patch?
Death of thy Soul, those Linnen Cheeks of thine
Are Counsellours to fear. What Soldiers, Whay-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 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.

Enter Seyton.

Sey.
What's 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 is hackt.
Give me my Armour.

Sey.
'Tis not needed yet.

Macb.
I'll put it on:
Send out more Horses, skir the Country round,
Hang those that stand in fear. Give me mine Armour.
Now do's 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 from that:
Canst thou not minister to a Mind diseas'd,
Pluck from the Memory a rooted Sorrow,
Raise out the written troubles of the Brain,
And with some sweet oblivious Antidote,
Cleanse the stuft Bosome of that perillous stuff,
Which weighs upon the Heart?

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 Rubarb, 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.
Were I from Dunsinane away, and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exeunt.

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