All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd.
Give me my armour.
'Tis not needed yet.
I'll put it on.
Send out more horses; skirr the country round;
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine
How does your patient, doctor?
Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
Cure her of that.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
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?
Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
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, 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,
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?
Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation
Makes us hear something.
Bring it after me.
I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
[Aside] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here.
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