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Fail not our feast.
My lord, I will not.
We have scorched the snake, not killed it.
Things without all remedy Should be without regard. What’s done is done.
O treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou may ’st revenge —O slave!
Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scaped.
Then comes my fit again. I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.
Why, how now, Hecate! You look angerly.
How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death?!
Some holy angel Fly to the court of England and unfold His message ere he come, that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accursed!
I’ll send my prayers with him.
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