Macbeth
Throw physic to the dogs; I’ll none of it.
Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff.
Seyton, send out. Doctor, the thanes fly from me.
Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast
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, cyme, 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.
Macbeth
Bring it after me.