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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 pronounced 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.
Don’t bring me any more reports; let them all fly away: Until Birnam wood moves to Dunsinane, I won’t be afraid. What’s the news about the boy Malcolm? Wasn’t he born of a woman? The spirits who know All mortal outcomes have told me this: ’Don’t fear, Macbeth; no man born of a woman Will ever have power over you.’ So go away, traitorous thanes, And join the English gluttons: The mind I control and the heart I have Will never be weighed down by doubt or shaken by fear.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Where got’st thou that goose look?
The devil take you, you pale-faced fool! Where did you get that stupid look?
There is ten thousand--
There are ten thousand--
Geese, villain!
Geese, you villain!
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 scratch your face, and make your fear even more obvious, You cowardly boy. What soldiers, fool? Damn your soul! Those pale cheeks of yours Are a sign of fear. What soldiers, you milk-faced wimp?
The English force, so please you.
The English army, if it pleases you.
Take thy face hence.
Get that face out of my sight.
Seyton!--I am sick at heart, When I behold--Seyton, I say!--This push Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now. I have lived 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!
Seyton!--I feel sick inside, When I see--Seyton, I say!--This situation Will either lift my spirits forever, or defeat me now. I’ve lived long enough: my way of life Has withered, like an old leaf; And the things that should come with old age, Like honor, love, obedience, and friends, I can’t expect to have; instead, I have Curses, not loud but deep, empty respect, false praise, Which my poor heart wants to reject, but can’t. Seyton!
What is your gracious pleasure?
What is your command, my lord?
What news more?
What’s the latest news?
All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.
Everything’s been confirmed, my lord, just as reported.
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 armor.
’Tis not needed yet.
It’s 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 armour. How does your patient, doctor?
I’ll put it on. Send out more horses; scour the land; Hang anyone who talks of fear. Give me my armor. How is your patient, doctor?
Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.
She’s not as sick as she is troubled by restless thoughts, That keep her from sleeping.
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?
Cure her of that. Can’t you treat a diseased mind, Take away a deep sorrow from the memory, Erase the troubling thoughts from the brain And with some sweet, forgetful remedy Cleanse her heart of the dangerous emotions That weigh it down?
Therein the patient Must minister to himself.
In this case, the patient Must heal themselves.
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, cyme, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear’st thou of them?
Throw medicine to the dogs; I don’t want any of it. Come, put on my armor; give me my staff. Seyton, send out. Doctor, the thanes are deserting me. Come, hurry up. If you could, doctor, examine My country, find her illness, And cure it back to health, I’d praise you to the heavens, And they’d echo my praise.--Take it off, I say.-- What medicine, what purging drug, Could drive these English away? Have you heard of any?
Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something.
Yes, my good lord; your royal plans Have made us hear something.
Bring it after me. I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
Bring it to me. I won’t be afraid of death or harm, Until Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane.
[Aside] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here.
[Aside] If I were away from Dunsinane and safe, Not even profit could make me return here.