Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 3

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 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.

Bring me no more reports; let them all desert. Until Birnam wood moves to Dunsinane I cannot be touched by fear. What is the boy Malcolm? Wasn't he born of a woman? The spirits that know everything that happens to mortals have declared this to me: "Don't be afraid, Macbeth; no man born of woman shall ever have power over you." So run away, disloyal thanes, and go join the English gluttons. The mind I am ruled by, and the heart I carry, shall never droop with doubt or tremble with fear.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon! Where gott’st thou that goose look?

May the devil turn you black with damnation, you cream-faced fool! Where did you get that goose-like look?

There is ten thousand—

There are ten thousand—

Geese, villain?

Geese, you wretch?

Soldiers, sir.

Soldiers, sir.

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?

Go prick your face and paint your fear over with red, you white-livered boy. What soldiers, fool? Damn your soul! Those linen-white cheeks of yours give lessons in fear. What soldiers, whey-face?

The English force, so please you.

The English army, if you please.

Take thy face hence.

Get your face out of here.

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 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!—

Seyton!—I am sick at heart when I see—Seyton, I say!—This assault will make me happy for good or unseat me now. I have lived long enough: my course of life has withered into the dry, yellow leaf; and the things that should go with old age, such as honour, love, obedience, crowds of friends, I must not expect to have. Instead of them I have curses, not loud but deep, flattery from the mouth, mere breath, which the poor heart would gladly refuse me but does not dare. Seyton!—

What’s your gracious pleasure?

What is your gracious wish?

What news more?

What further news?

All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.

Everything that was reported is confirmed, my lord.

I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack’d. Give me my armour.

I'll fight until my flesh is hacked from my bones. Give me my armour.

’Tis not needed yet.

It isn't needed yet.

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?

I'll put it on. Send out more cavalry, scour the countryside all around; hang anyone who talks of fear. Give me my armour.—How is your patient, doctor?

Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.

Not so much sick, my lord, as troubled by crowding fantasies that keep her from sleeping.

Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d, 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?

Cure her of that. Can't you treat a diseased mind, pull a deep-rooted sorrow out of the memory, wipe away the troubles written on the brain, and with some sweet forgetting medicine cleanse the clogged chest of that dangerous matter that weighs down the heart?

Therein the patient Must minister to himself.

In that, the patient must treat 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, despatch.—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?

Throw medicine to the dogs, I'll have none of it. Come, put my armour on me; give me my staff. Seyton, send them out.—Doctor, the thanes are running away from me.—Come, sir, hurry.—If you could, doctor, examine the urine of my country, find out its disease, and purge it back to sound, perfect health, I would applaud you so loudly that the echo itself would applaud back.—Pull it off, I say.—What rhubarb, senna, or what purging drug would flush these English out of here? Have you heard about them?

Ay, my good lord. Your royal preparation Makes us hear something.

Yes, my good lord. Your royal preparations make us hear something of them.

Bring it after me.— I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

Bring it after me.—I will not be afraid of death and destruction until Birnam forest comes to Dunsinane.

Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here.

If I were away from Dunsinane and safely clear of it, no amount of profit would easily bring me back here.