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Caithness:
Well, march we on,
To give obedience where ’tis truly ow'd:
Meet we the med’cine of the sickly weal;
And with him pour we, in our country’s purge,
Each drop of us.
Lennox:
Or so much as it needs
To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds.
Make we our march towards Birnam.
(Exeunt, marching.)
Scene Three. 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 cheer me ever or disseat me now.
I have liv’d long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n 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 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.