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How does your patient, doctor?

Macbeth
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 stuffed 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.—

Source:
Act 5
Scene 3
Line 45

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