Seyton!—I am sick at heart, When I behold—Seyton, I say!—This push Will cheer me ever or disseat me now. I have liv’d long enough: my way of life Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!—

Enter Seyton.

SEYTON. What’s your gracious pleasure?

MACBETH. What news more?

SEYTON. All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.

MACBETH. I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack’d. Give me my armour.