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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