Lady Macbeth. SONG. TUNE." Nobody's coming to woo." Oh, here is a nasty red spot, And here is another, I vow, Since plenty of water I've got, And its dear, dear, how can I scrub them out? and water can rub them out, Nothing restore them their hue. (Washing her hands. My hands were once charmingly white, But now they are shamefully red, Alas! what a terrible sight, They fill me with horror and dread. And its dear, dear, how can I scrub them out, and water can rub them out, Nothing restore them their hue. (Exit. Perhaps will dress, and wash her hauds in vain. Can'st thou not give a pill To cure her mind? Can'st thou prescribe no mean To pluck a rooted sorrow from her brain? No sweet oblivious dose to free the heart From gnawing grief? Doctor. That is beyond our art, It is the patient's self the heart must free. Macbeth. Throw physic to the dogs!—no slops for me. Enter Servant. How now, thou cream-faced loon, pray get thee back, Until Old Nick has dyed thy image black→ No, sir, nor ganders-they are soldiers, Macbeth. Cease, Thou lily-liver'd boy-go, get a brush, Scrub well thy face, and make thy terror blush. What soldiers, whey-face? The English force Servaut. Macbeth. I'm sick Take thyself off. (Servant ex.) Give me my armour quick! Oh, doctor, doctor, where's the jollop, pray, Doctor. I cannot say. Macbeth. Well!-who's afraid! I'll run and meet the foe, And, doctor, I shall give you-leave to go. Ex. severally. |