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? Spirits, that know
^{7 note}All mortal consequences, have pronounc'd it:
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 sagg with doubt, nor shake with fear. Enter a Servant.
The devil damn thee black, chou 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! ^{8 note}
those linnen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?

Ser.
The English force, so please you.

&wlquo;Macb.
&wlquo;Take thy face hence—Seyton!—I'm sick at heart,
&wlquo;When I behold—Seyton, I say!—This push
&wlquo;Will cheer me ever, or disease me now.
&wlquo;I have liv'd long enough: ^{9 note}

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 hackt;
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.
How 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 of that:
&plquo;Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,
&plquo;Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
&plquo;Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
&plquo;And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
&plquo;Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
&plquo;Which weighs upon the heart?&prquo;

Doct.
Therein the Patient
Must minister unto himself.

&wlquo;Macb.
&wlquo;Throw physick to the dogs, I'll none of it—&wrquo;
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—
^{1 note}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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