Macbeth.
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 on thee.”—Then fly, false thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures:(B)8Q0176
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sagg^{1 note} with doubt, nor shake with fear. Enter an Officer, R.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon!^{2 note}
Where gott'st thou that goose look?

Off.
There is ten thousand—

Macbeth.
Geese, villain?

Off.
Soldiers, sir.

Macbeth.
Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch?^{3 note}
Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?

Off.
The English force, so please you.

Macbeth.
Take thy face hence. [Exit Officer, R.
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 May 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, but dare not.
Seyton!— Enter Seyton, R.

Sey.
What is your gracious pleasure?

Macbeth.
What news more?

Sey.
All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.

Macbeth.
I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. Enter the Doctor, R.
Send out more horses, skirr the country round;
Hang those that talk of fear.
How does your patient, doctor?

Doc. (L. C.)
Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.

Macbeth.
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 grief,^{4 note}
Which weighs upon the heart?

Doc.
Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.

Macbeth.
Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.—
Give me my staff:
Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the thanes fly from me:—
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 would applaud again.—
What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug,
Would scour these English hence?—Hearest thou of them?

Doc.
Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation
Makes us hear something.

Macbeth.
Bring it after me.—
I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. [Flourish. Exeunt, R.

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