William Shakespeare's Macbeth, his famous "Scottish play" is the story of a good man turned evil by a dark ambition he cannot control.
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Macbeth

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Act I. Scene III.

Scene III.—Dunsinane. A Room in the
Castle.

Enter MACBETH, Doctor, and Attendants.

Macb. Bring me no more reports; let them
fly all:
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane
I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Mal-
colm?
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 a Servant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd
loon!
Where gott'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-Iiver'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 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.
Sey. What is 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 armour.
Sey. 'Tis not needed yet.
Macb. I 'II 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?
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 diseased,
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 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,
That should applaud again.—Pull't off, I say.—
What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug
Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou
of them?
Doct. Ay, my good lord; your royal prepara-
tion
Mikes us hear something.
Macb. Bring it after me.
I will not be afraid of death and bane
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
Doct. [Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away
and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here.
[Exeunt.
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