What's your
gracious
pleasure?
shakespeare-macbeth
Geese Villaine?
Ser. Souldiers Sir
Macb. Go pricke thy face, and ouer-red thy feare
Thou Lilly-liuer'd Boy. What Soldiers, Patch?
Death of thy Soule, those Linnen cheekes of thine
Are Counsailers to feare. What Soldiers Whay-face?
Ser. The English Force, so please you
Macb. Take thy face hence. Seyton, I am sick at hart,
When I behold: Seyton, I say, this push
Will cheere me euer, or dis-eate me now.
I haue liu'd long enough: my way of life
Is falne into the Seare, the yellow Leafe,
And that which should accompany Old-Age,
As Honor, Loue, Obedience, Troopes of Friends,
I must not looke to haue: but in their steed,
Curses, not lowd but deepe, Mouth-honor, breath
Which the poore heart would faine deny, and dare not.
Seyton?
Enter Seyton.
Sey.
What's your gracious pleasure?
Macb. What Newes more?
Sey. All is confirm'd my Lord, which was reported
Macb. Ile fight, till from my bones, my flesh be hackt.
Giue me my Armor
Seyt. 'Tis not needed yet
Macb. Ile put it on:
Send out moe Horses, skirre the Country round,
Hang those that talke of Feare. Giue me mine Armor:
How do's your Patient, Doctor?
Doct. Not so sicke my Lord,
As she is troubled with thicke-comming Fancies
That keepe her from her rest
Macb. Cure of that:
Can'st thou not Minister to a minde diseas'd,
Plucke from the Memory a rooted Sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the Braine,
And with some sweet Obliuious Antidote
Cleanse the stufft bosome, of that perillous stuffe
Which weighes vpon the heart?
Doct. Therein the Patient
Must minister to himselfe
Macb. Throw Physicke to the Dogs, Ile none of it.
Ser. Souldiers Sir
Macb. Go pricke thy face, and ouer-red thy feare
Thou Lilly-liuer'd Boy. What Soldiers, Patch?
Death of thy Soule, those Linnen cheekes of thine
Are Counsailers to feare. What Soldiers Whay-face?
Ser. The English Force, so please you
Macb. Take thy face hence. Seyton, I am sick at hart,
When I behold: Seyton, I say, this push
Will cheere me euer, or dis-eate me now.
I haue liu'd long enough: my way of life
Is falne into the Seare, the yellow Leafe,
And that which should accompany Old-Age,
As Honor, Loue, Obedience, Troopes of Friends,
I must not looke to haue: but in their steed,
Curses, not lowd but deepe, Mouth-honor, breath
Which the poore heart would faine deny, and dare not.
Seyton?
Enter Seyton.
Sey.
What's your gracious pleasure?
Macb. What Newes more?
Sey. All is confirm'd my Lord, which was reported
Macb. Ile fight, till from my bones, my flesh be hackt.
Giue me my Armor
Seyt. 'Tis not needed yet
Macb. Ile put it on:
Send out moe Horses, skirre the Country round,
Hang those that talke of Feare. Giue me mine Armor:
How do's your Patient, Doctor?
Doct. Not so sicke my Lord,
As she is troubled with thicke-comming Fancies
That keepe her from her rest
Macb. Cure of that:
Can'st thou not Minister to a minde diseas'd,
Plucke from the Memory a rooted Sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the Braine,
And with some sweet Obliuious Antidote
Cleanse the stufft bosome, of that perillous stuffe
Which weighes vpon the heart?
Doct. Therein the Patient
Must minister to himselfe
Macb. Throw Physicke to the Dogs, Ile none of it.
