MACBETH: How is my wife, doctor?
DOCTOR: She is not sick, my lord, but she is troubled with endless visions that keep her from sleeping.
MACBETH: Cure her of it. Can you not treat a diseased mind? Pluck the painful thought from her memory? Erase the troubles written on her brain and, with some sweet forgetful drug, cleanse her of the dangerous stuff that weighs upon her heart?
DOCTOR: For that kind of relief, the patient must heal herself.
MACBETH: Throw medicine to the dogs! I'll have none of it.
Come, put my armor on me. Give me my lance. Seyton, send out the soldiers!
Doctor, the thanes are flying away from me. Come, sir, hurry!