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 infected with fear. What is the boy Malcolm? Wasn't he born of a woman? The spirits who know everything that happens to mortals have declared this to me: "Fear nothing, Macbeth; no man born of a woman shall ever have power over you." So run away, disloyal thanes, and join the pleasure-loving English. The mind I'm ruled by and the heart I carry shall never droop with fear or shake with terror.

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 look of a frightened goose?

There is ten thousand—

There are ten thousand—

Geese, villain?

Geese, you scoundrel?

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 and prick your face and paint some red over your fear, you lily-livered boy. What soldiers, idiot? Damnation on your soul! Those cheeks of yours, white as linen, urge others to be afraid. What soldiers, face as pale as whey?

The English force, so please you.

The English army, if you please.

Take thy face hence.

Take 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 look at—Seyton, I say!—This attack will either make me happy forever or unseat me now. I have lived long enough: my course of life has fallen 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; but instead of them, curses, not loud but deep, flattery from the mouth only, empty breath, which the poor heart would gladly refuse, and does not dare to. 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 the flesh is hacked off 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 horsemen, 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 ill, my lord, as troubled by crowding visions that keep her from resting.

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 out the troubles written in the brain, and with some sweet drug that brings forgetting cleanse the choked breast of the dangerous matter that weighs on 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; give me my staff. Seyton, send them out.—Doctor, the thanes are deserting me.—Come, sir, hurry.—If you could, doctor, examine the urine of my country, find out its disease, and purge it back to sound and perfect health, I would applaud you until the very echo applauded 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 profit would easily bring me back here.