I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on 's grave.
DOCT. Even so?
LADY M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
Exit Lady.
DOCT. Will she go now to bed?
GENT. Directly.
DOCT.
Foul whisp'rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine than the physician.
God, God, forgive us all! Look after her,
Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
And still keep eyes upon her. So good night.
My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight.
I think, but dare not speak.
GENT.
Good night, good doctor.
Exeunt.
Scene II
Drum and Colors. Enter Menteth, Cathness, Angus, Lennox, Soldiers.
MENT.
The English pow'r is near, led on by Malcolm,
His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff.
Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes
Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm
Excite the mortified man.
ANG.
Near Birnan wood
Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.
CATH.
Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?
LEN.
For certain, sir, he is not; I have a file
Of all the gentry. There is Siward's son,
And many unrough youths that even now
Protest their first of manhood.
MENT.
What does the tyrant?
CATH.
Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies.
Some say he's mad; others that lesser hate him
Do call it valiant fury; but for certain
He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause
Within the belt of rule.
ANG.
Now does he feel
His secret murthers sticking on his hands;
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
Those he commands move only in command,
Nothing in love. Now does he feel his title
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.
MENT.
Who then shall blame
His pester'd senses to recoil and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself for being there?
CATH.
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.
LEN.
Or so much as it needs
To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds.
Make we our march towards Birnan.
Exeunt marching.
Scene III
Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.
MACB.
Bring me no more reports, let them fly all.
Till Birnan 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 Servant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon!
Where got'st thou that goose-look?
SERV.
There is ten thousand –
MACB.
Geese, villain?
SERV.
Soldiers, sir.
MACB.
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?
SERV.
The English force, so please you.
MACB.
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 sear, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
Seyton!
Enter Seyton.
SEY.
What's your gracious pleasure?
MACB.
What news more?
SEY.
All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
MACB.
I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hack'd.
Give me my armor.
SEY.
'Tis not needed yet.
MACB.
I'll put it on.
Send out moe horses, skirr the country round,
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armor.
How does your patient, doctor?
DOCT.
Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
MACB.
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?
DOCT.
Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
MACB.
Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.
Come, put mine armor on; give me my staff.
Seyton, send out. Doctor, the thanes fly from me. –
Come, sir, dispatch. – 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.
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