Act V · Scene III
Dunsinane. A room in the castle.
Hover a speech to translate it — or press play to hear it performed.
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 knowAll mortal consequences have pronounced me thus:'Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of womanShall 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 bearShall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.
Enter a Servant
MACBETH
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-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch?Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thineAre counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
Servant
The English force, so please you.
MACBETH
Take thy face hence.
Exit Servant
MACBETH
Seyton!--I am sick at heart,When I behold--Seyton, I say!--This pushWill cheer me ever, or disseat me now.I have lived long enough: my way of lifeIs 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 is 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 diseased,Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,Raze out the written troubles of the brainAnd with some sweet oblivious antidoteCleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuffWhich weighs upon the heart?
Doctor
Therein the patientMust 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, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, castThe 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, cyme, or what purgative drug,Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them?
Doctor
Ay, my good lord; your royal preparationMakes us hear something.
MACBETH
Bring it after me.I will not be afraid of death and bane,Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
Doctor
[Aside] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,Profit again should hardly draw me here.
Exeunt