Macbeth Act 5. sc. 3 continued
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Not so sick, my lord As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies. That keep her from her rest.
Canst tho 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 stuffed blossom of that perilous stuff which weights upon the heart?
Therein the patient Must minister to himeself.
Throw physic to the dogs. I'll none of it- Come, put mine armor on. Give me my staff
Ay, my good lord. Your royal preparation makes us heart something.
Come, sir, dispatch. Doctor, the thanes fly from me.- The water of my land, find her disease, and purge it to a sound and pristine health
[aside] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, profit again should hardly draw me here.
I will not be afraid of death and bane til Birnam Forest come to Dunisnane
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