Page 2169 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

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, [40]
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.

MACBETH
Throw physic to the dogs! I’ll none of it. −
Come, put mine armour on, give me my staff.