Speeches (Lines) for Doctor in "The Tragedy of Macbeth"

Malcolm. Well; more anon.--Comes the king forth, I pray you?

Doctor. Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretched souls
That stay his cure: their malady convinces
The great assay of art; but at his touch--
Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand--
They presently amend.

Malcolm. This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the king; our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave; Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may:
The night is long that never finds the day.

Doctor. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive
no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?

Gentlewoman. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen
her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon
her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it,
write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again
return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

Doctor. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once
the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of
watching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her
walking and other actual performances, what, at any
time, have you heard her say?

Gentlewoman. That, sir, which I will not report after her.

Doctor. You may to me: and 'tis most meet you should.

Gentlewoman. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to
confirm my speech.
[Enter LADY MACBETH, with a taper]
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise;
and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

Doctor. How came she by that light?

Gentlewoman. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her
continually; 'tis her command.

Doctor. You see, her eyes are open.

Gentlewoman. Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doctor. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

Lady Macbeth. Yet here's a spot.

Doctor. Hark! she speaks: I will set down what comes from
her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady Macbeth. Out, damned spot; out, I say! –One, two: why
then, 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier,
and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have
had so much blood in him.

Doctor. Do you mark that?

Lady Macbeth. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will
these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that.
You mar all with this starting.

Doctor. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

Lady Macbeth. Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will
not sweeten this little hand. O, O, O!

Doctor. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

Gentlewoman. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the
dignity of the whole body.

Doctor. Well, well, well,--

Gentlewoman. Pray God it be, sir.

Doctor. This disease is beyond my practise: yet I have known
those which have walked in their sleep who have died
holily in their beds.

Lady Macbeth. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown, look not so pale. I
tell you yet again, Banquo's buried. He cannot come out on's grave.

Doctor. Even so?

Lady Macbeth. To bed, to bed. There's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come,
come. Give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone.--To bed, to
bed, to bed.

Doctor. Will she go now to bed?

Gentlewoman. Directly.

Doctor. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets:
More needs she the divine than the physician.
God, God forgive us all! Look after her;
Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night:
My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight.
I think, but dare not speak.

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.

Macbeth. Cure her of that.
Canst thou 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 stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Doctor. Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.

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.
I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

Doctor. [Aside] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here.