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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 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 mix with the English epicures;
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sag with doubt, nor shake with fear.
Enter Servant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon.
Where got’st thou that goose-look?
SERVANT: There is ten thousand.
MACBETH: Geese, villain?
SERVANT: Soldiers, sir.
MACBETH: 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?
SERVANT: The English force, so please you.
MACBETH: Take thy face hence.
Exit Servant.
Seyton, I am sick at heart,
When I behold — Seyton, I say, — this push
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.
I have lived long enough: my way of life
Is fallen into the sere, 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.
Seyton?
Enter SEYTON.
SEYTON: What’s your gracious pleasure?
MACBETH: What news more?
SEYTON: All is confirmed, my lord, which was reported.
MACBETH: I’ll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.
Give me my armour.
SEYTON: ‘Tis not needed yet.
MACBETH: I’ll put it on.
Send out more horses, skirr the country round,
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.
How does your patient, doctor?
DOCTOR: 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 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?
DOCTOR: Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
William Shakespeare
Macbeth (Bloomsbury, 2015)