Servant

 The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon! Where gott’st thou that goose look? 

 SERVANT. There is ten thousand— 

 MACBETH. Geese, villain? 

 SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. 

 MACBETH. 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? 

 SERVANT. The English force, so please you. 

 MACBETH. Take thy face hence. 

[Exit Servant.]

 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!— 

Enter Seyton.

Seyton

 SEYTON. What’s your gracious pleasure? 

 MACBETH. What news more? 

 SEYTON. All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported. 

 MACBETH. I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack’d. Give me my armour. 

 SEYTON. ’Tis not needed yet. 

 MACBETH. 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? 

 DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. 

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