How does your patient, doctor?
DOCTOR Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies40
That keep her from her rest.
MACBETH 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,44
And with some sweet oblivious antidote45
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.49
[To an Attendant]
Come, put mine armor on. Give me my staff.50
Seyton, send out.-Doctor, the thanes fly from me.-
Come, sir, dispatch.-If thou couldst, doctor, cast52
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?
DOCTOR
Ay, my good lord. Your royal preparation
Makes us hear something.60
MACBETH Bring it after me.
I will not be afraid of death and bane61