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Macbeth
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READ STUDY GUIDE: Act V, scenes i–xi

 
Act V, Scene iii:
Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
 
[Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.]
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 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 loon!
Where gott'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-liver'd 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 chair me ever or disseat 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.
Seyton!—
[Enter Seyton.]
SEYTON:
What's your gracious pleasure?
MACBETH:
What news more?
SEYTON:
All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
MACBETH:
I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd.
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 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 stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
DOCTOR:
Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
MACBETH:
Throw physic to the dogs,—I'll none of it.—
Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:—
Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.—
Come, sir, despatch.—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 should applaud again.—Pull't off, I say.—
What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug,
Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them?
DOCTOR:
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.
[Exeunt all except Doctor.]
DOCTOR:
Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here.
[Exit.]
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