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.]