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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 pronounced me thus: 
“Fear not, Macbeth, no man that’s born of woman
Shall e’er have power upon thee.” Then fly, false thanes, 
And mix 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-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-livered 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 lived long enough: my way of life
Is fallen 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 confirmed, my lord, which was reported. 
MACBETH: I’ll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked. 
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 brain, 
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart? 
DOCTOR: Therein the patient
Must minister to himself. 
William Shakespeare 
Macbeth (Bloomsbury, 2015)