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Doct. What a sigh is there? The heart is sorely charged.
Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body.
Doct. Well, well, well,—
Gent. 'Pray God, it be, sir.
Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known those which have walk'd in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.
Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:-I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out of his 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 Macbeth.
Doct. Will she go now to bed?
Doct. Foul whisperings are abroad: Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: Infected minds.
Good night, good doctor. [Exeunt.
THE COUNTRY NEAR DUNSINANE.
Enter, with Drum and Colours, Menteth, Cathness, Angus, Lenox, and Soldiers.
Ment. The English power is near, led on by
His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff.
Near Birnam 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
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.
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.
Who then shall blame
Or so much as it needs,
Len. To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam.
DUNSINANE. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.
Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants. Mac. 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
And mingle with the English epicures:
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Enter a Sercant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where got'st thou that goose look?
Ser. There is ten thousand
Soldiers, sir. Mac. 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? Ser. The English force, so please you.
Mac. Take thy face hence.-Seyton!—I am sick at heart,
When I behold-Seyton, I say!-This push
Sey. What is your gracious pleasure?
What news more?
Sey. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was re
Mac. I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hack'd.
Give me my armour.
Mac. I'll put it on.
'Tis not needed yet.
Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.-Give me mine ar
Doct. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.
Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
Mac. Throw physick to the dogs, I'll none of
Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:—
And purge it to a sound and pristine health,