Act 2 Scene 3 Booker
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- Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Beelzebub? Here’s a farmer that hanged himself on th’ expectation of plenty
- O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!
- Let’s briefly put on manly readiness And meet i’ th’ hall together.
- Help me hence, ho!
- What will you do? Let’s not consort with them. To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England.
- To Ireland I. Our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are, There’s daggers in men’s smiles. The near in blood, The nearer bloody.
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